


The Caged Hawk

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [7]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Politics, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Incompatible Mixed-Orientation Marriage, Misogyny, Prequel, Religious Conflict, Violence, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-08 03:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20828336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: "Thirty years old, Evoker of the Synod, recognised master enchanter and alchemist, Legion veteran, and published author of two books. But, thanks to my parents and grandparents, I have no more authority and respect than an Apprentice, I live in a rented room, and my only real friends are the draugr I kill. Behold the life and times of the mighty mage Laina South-Wind."When Laina South-Wind receives an offer to join High King Torygg's court, she jumps at the chance to leave her stultifying life - and the Elder Council's constant vigilance - in Bruma behind.But Skyrim is on the verge of civil war, her long estranged mother and two brothers she's never met on the rebel side, and subtler dangers lurk in the tombs and wild places of the northern province.A hawk in a gilded cage is still a hawk. An Aurelii with another name is still an Aurelii. And the winds of fate are only just beginning to blow...





	1. A Chance and a Change

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, adultery, torture, incompatible mixed-orientation marriage, child abandonment and child death. Laina’s final few years before canon, folks! The other prequel will be The Summer King, which is the too-brief reign of Torygg.

_4E 198_

_Thirty years old, Evoker of the Synod, recognised master enchanter and alchemist, Legion veteran, and published author of two books. But, thanks to my parents and grandparents, I have no more authority and respect than an Apprentice, I live in a rented room, and my only real friends are the draugr I kill. Behold the life and times of the mighty mage Laina South-Wind._

Of course, she said none of this aloud as the Evoker who recently replaced Philomena Gracchi droned on about new policy changes, budget cuts and the other minutiae of the Synodic Council’s last meeting. Miserius was his name and never more a miserly or miserable person since Garinus had she met in the Bruma chapterhouse. The current Journeymage J’zargo was openly yawning in his lazily arrogant manner while Jura-Ree, the new Apprentice, was cleaning his talons with a silver penknife she was certain Neela-Tai stole from Corellius Carvain two years ago. Absolutely no one, not even himself, respected old Misery-Guts.

“Do you have any questions?” Miserius asked.

J’zargo raised his hand. “J’zargo does. Are you usually this boring or were you making a special effort for him today?”

Laina coughed behind her hand and Jura-Ree openly laughed.

“In my day, Journeymages jumped when an Evoker opened their mouth!” snapped Miserius.

“That was when, just after the Oblivion Crisis?” Jura-Ree muttered.

Laina simply arched her eyebrows when Miserius looked at her beseechingly. By order of the Elder Council, she was to have no position of power or authority in the Synod outside of lessons, and even then she answered to whatever Evoker ran the Bruma chapterhouse.

“Bah!” Miserius stalked off to his bedroom and the two younger mages laughed.

“J’zargo thanks you,” the snowy sabre-striped Khajiit said as he handed Jura-Ree a petty soul gem. “One more sentence about the wonderful opportunities for mages in the Imperial Sewerage Authority and he would have set Misery-Guts on fire.”

“He kept on looking at me when he was talking about it,” the Argonian replied glumly as he tucked the gem into his robe. “Thanks for setting it up like that.”

“Argonians are popular for that branch of the government,” Laina confirmed. “I think it’s the whole water-breathing, resistant-to-disease thing. As if a few good potions and a minor enchantment or two couldn’t produce the same effect.”

“Why is he in charge?” Jura-Ree asked plaintively.

“He’s not from a family under Imperial interdict,” Laina said softly.

She clapped her hands. “Since you two aren’t interested in the opportunities for advancement in the more unpleasant but still necessary branches of the Imperial government, perhaps you’ll find mixing cure potions for disease and poison more to your tastes.”

“Not particularly,” J’zargo said bluntly.

“It’s not glamorous, kiddo, but it does pay more than the piss-weak stipend we political pariahs receive from the Synod,” Laina informed him calmly. “Once you hit Adept-level skill in any School, your free tutelage ends. I know you’re nearly there in Destruction and you haven’t shown much interest in anything other than the basics for Alteration and Restoration, so soon you’ll be a working Journeymage like a hundred others.”

Jura-Ree grimaced. “Miserius says I’ll be lucky to become a Journeymage.”

“He’s just bitter because he didn’t get control of the Cheydinhal chapterhouse and absolutely no one at Arcane University respects him,” Laina drawled sardonically. “We’ve got a hot summer coming up and that means infection, illness and all sorts of other health issues. So let’s get cracking on these potions.”

After the students had completed their allotment of potions with minimal mistakes, Laina dismissed them for the day, closed up the workroom and took her share down to the marketplace. Three out of every five potions remained in the Synodic storerooms against a time of great need, but the other two were hers to sell as she wished. Between the income from the alchemy and her stipend from the Synod, she could afford a private room in a respectable hostel on the second tier and the supplies for her true avocation, the study of ancient Nord magic.

“Another camping trip planned?” the Bosmer alchemist who bought her potions asked as Laina lined up the four vials on her counter.

“Yeah,” Laina admitted.

“If you can get me some bone meal and mudcrab chitin, I’d appreciate it,” she replied. “I’ve got a traditionalist Green Pact hunter looking for fire resistance potions.”

“Bone meal is a possibility,” Laina answered. “Try Jura-Ree for the chitin.”

“I will, thanks.” She handed over the small pouch of coin. “Happy hunting.”

“Thanks.”

Laina was packing a few days’ worth of cheese, bread, dried meat and fruit from the Synodic storehouse when J’zargo knocked on the kitchen door. “There is a courier for you in the front office,” the Journeymage reported with a big grin. “Misery-Guts is not particularly happy, which pleases J’zargo.”

“You really shouldn’t call him that,” Laina pointed out as she fastened her pack. “Not if you want a future in the Synod.”

“J’zargo is considering the College of Winterhold. Here, the Whispers, it is all politics.”

“Stick it out until you complete your Destruction training,” Laina advised. “A half-decent battlemage can earn a fair amount of coin as a mercenary.”

“J’zargo has family in Skyrim he can travel with,” the Khajiit said calmly.

“Still, it won’t hurt you to tolerate Miserius for a few more months. Maybe work on your alchemical skills a bit more.”

“It is _boring_,” he complained.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “But an alchemist will rarely be out of work so long as there are herbs and an alchemical table about.”

She left the kitchen and went upstairs to the front office, where Miserius and the courier waited. “You took your time!” the senior Evoker snapped.

“I was packing for a short trip into the Jeralls,” Laina answered mildly. “Or does this courier bear the news I’m forbidden even _that_ now?”

“My name is Jordis the Sword-Maiden,” said the flaxen-haired young woman, her buxom, broad-shouldered frame encased in the fur-trimmed steel armour popular with more prosperous mercenaries in Skyrim.

“Sword-Maiden the Sword-Maiden?” Laina asked, both eyebrows arching. 

Jordis smirked. “The repetition is for the sake of the Cyrods. Perhaps I’ll earn a new honour-name in a year or two.”

“You’re not the usual courier I receive,” Laina noted as she shifted her pack. “Most of them are surly louts in Legion armour bearing the latest decree from the Elder Council.”

“Torygg… _High King_ Torygg… said you’d say something like that,” Jordis observed in her light sweet voice. “Do you remember meeting him two years ago?”

“I do,” Laina said. “I’m guessing Istlod’s gone to Sovngarde?”

“Breathed in by Kyne. It was the straw-death because he died in bed.” Jordis clasped her hands before her. “High King Torygg would very much wish to tender an invitation to you, the premier authority on pre-Septim Nordic magic, to join his court in Solitude.”

“I’d be honoured,” Laina said slowly. “Has this been cleared with the Elder Council?”

“High King Torygg convinced them you’d be more use in Solitude, close to Imperial hand, than mouldering in County Bruma,” Jordis answered.

Laina nodded. “Give me an hour or so? I need to pack some more. I’d been planning a trip to a Dragon Cult ruin.”

Jordis blinked. “An hour?”

“I need to walk down to the second tier, fetch my belongings and settle my accounts at the hostel I live at,” Laina said dryly. “Mages simply cannot go from here to there in a heartbeat.”

“Oh! I thought there’d be lots of magical stuff and bits to bring…” Jordis blushed. She was quite young.

“I’m used to working and travelling light.” With a nod, Laina left the chapterhouse.

Her life in Bruma was packed into two bags, most of it books, dried herbs, potions and a few oddments. Laina slung her bags across her back Legion-style, sheathed her stalhrim sword at her waist, and touched her ivory amulet from Southfringe Sanctum for luck. Her landlord had returned the rest of her month’s rent and thrown in a couple bottles of Applewatch cider as a farewell gift.

“Ready,” she said to Jordis in front of the chapterhouse.

The warrior nodded and led her on the path north. To the land of Laina’s ancestors that she’d never seen, where there was kin who would not welcome her presence.

But it was a change and a chance, and that was all Laina had ever wanted.


	2. The Wizard from the Synod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of imprisonment, genocide, war crimes and child abandonment.

They overnighted at the inn near Fort Pale Pass and crossed the border as the Jeralls were touched with rose and amber from the rising sun.

“Falkreath isn’t a safe place for you,” Jordis said matter-of-factly as they walked down the cobblestoned road that was already less tended than it had been over in County Bruma. “Dengeir is paranoid to the point of insanity _and_ a supporter of the Stormcloaks besides. For years, he pretended – and your mother went along with it – that she’d gone a virgin Shieldmaiden to Ulfric’s bed. It wasn’t until Rikke got her hands on your Apprentice portrait that they were forced to confess the truth.”

“First Adjunct Oronrel told me that years ago, just before I was conscripted into the Anvil Third,” Laina said quietly. “Is he likely to send someone to kill me?”

“No. He’s more frightened of your father than anyone else in the world.” Jordis shrugged. “We have two choices – cut through the Reach and come straight to Haafingar or hug the edges of Falkreath, enter Whiterun Hold, and catch a carriage from there to Solitude.”

Laina shoved her sleeves up to reveal the clan-tattoos her grandmother had given her fourteen years ago. “_I_ might be able to pass safely through the Reach but I don’t think they’d welcome _you_ too kindly. We take the path to Whiterun.”

“Those are Reacher clan-tattoos! Some of Queen Elisif’s household have them – she’s from Evermore-“

“Which is located near enough to the western Reach, the Sunset Lands, that there’s likely to be a few of the hill-folk in residence,” Laina finished. “The Stormsword’s mother was the daughter of a southern Reach chief’s sister, married to secure access to two sacred holy sites of the Sunrise Lands in northern Falkreath.”

Her tone turned sardonic. “As you can no doubt guess, it didn’t end well.”

“I’d heard some of the Kreathlings claim Forsworn drove Dengeir mad… der,” Jordis said slowly as they walked along the road. “How did you get those? You’ve never left Cyrodiil in your life!”

“Granma Catriona had to leave the Reach for a while and she figured she’d make sure one of her grandchildren didn’t turn out to be a Talos worshipper to pass the time,” Laina explained. “It was she who got me interested in the old Nord magics because Kynareth knew I couldn’t exactly study the Akaviri ones!”

“I suppose not.” Jordis chewed her lip. “Torygg’s trying to make peace with the Forsworn. Could you help him?”

“Not likely. The Reachfolk have a fairly justified hatred of the lowlanders in general and Nords in particular. These would buy me tolerance and a place by the fire, but the kind of trust you’re talking about would take years, if not decades. I might be the granddaughter of a Matriarch, but that Matriarch is disgraced for failing to stop the invasion, and that Matriarch is the mother of the woman who took an entire generation of Reach children to be raised in the lowlands.”

Jordis nodded with a sigh. “I suppose you’re right. I lost my parents in a Forsworn raid on Dragon Bridge about ten years ago. I’d like to see peace between Haafingar and the Forsworn, at least.”

“You’re a rare warrior. Most Nords would be champing at the bit to avenge them in blood and ruin.” Laina sighed and scanned the horizon. Pine trees, more pine trees, a small mountain or large hill with the distinctive arches of the Dragon Cult on it, and beyond that the faintest shimmer of green-gold. “How far to Whiterun’s border?”

“It’s about a half-day from the border to Helgen, and then that again to Riverwood.” Jordis gave her a sideways glance. “Why?”

“I hope you know how to march Legion-style,” Laina said, quickening her pace. “I’m not minded to test my grandfather’s hospitality.”

Helgen was a bustling border village that mostly featured low thatched wooden cottages around the central keep. As opposed to the Bruma folk, who typically had the bronze cast to the complexion and the dark hair from Akaviri, the Kreathlings were earth-brown of hair, eye and complexion with a scattering of rangy golden-haired people, some Redguards and nearly as many Cyrods as County Bruma. But they didn’t hang around to see the sights, instead passing through one gate and out the other on a road that led down a hill and along a river.

Jordis stopped at three standing stones, each one etched with one of the Guardian Constellations, and touched the Warrior one for luck. Laina was confident in her abilities as a mage, so she chose Thief for a soft tongue and a softer step. Much to her surprise, blue-white light outlined the constellation and pierced the sky above.

“Thief, hey? You can always change your fate,” Jordis finally remarked.

“A soft tongue and a soft tread has kept me alive so far,” Laina observed. “I’d like to continue that way.”

They made it to Riverwood, a prosperous little lumber village located just over the border, and Laina allowed herself a sigh of relief. The sun was westering and while she was used to the Legion march, it had been a while since she’d walked with little stop from dawn to dusk.

“The Sleeping Giant’s clean, if not fancy,” Jordis said. “Or so old Belrand told me.”

Her statement was correct. The Sleeping Giant was clean, bug-free and smelt mostly of savoury stew with an undernote of mead and sweat. Jordis paid for two rooms, bowls of vegetable stew with a hunk of bread, and unlimited tankards of the house beer and mead. Breakfast, apparently, would be more bread with honey. Laina took her meal and sat in a dim corner, alternating between sips of mead and mouthfuls of stew-dipped bread.

The locals gave her and Jordis askance glances but didn’t say too much; travellers were obviously common around here. When Laina rose to walk over to the bar and refill her tankard, one of the blond men of the village grunted and said, “Fancy robes. You a wizard or somethin’?”

“Yes. No, I can’t turn wood to gold, people to toads or water into wine,” Laina replied with a sigh.

He laughed. “Sounds like you get asked that a lot.”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” she admitted ruefully, refilling her tankard from the keg on the bar.

“You a battlemage?”

“No. I mostly work as an alchemist, healer and enchanter.” She was about to walk away when he grabbed her arm.

“Can you make cures for disease? My Frodnar… He has the red-spot sickness and he’s too sick to take to the Temple in Whiterun.” There was an honest plea in his blue eyes.

Laina put her tankard on the bar. “I can. Jordis! We’ve got a sick lad I need to tend to.”

“I’ll come with you,” the warrior immediately said, rising to her feet.

“She won’t come to harm!” snapped the man.

“Jordis was hired to deliver me safely to where I’m going,” Laina told him. “She comes, or I give you one of my cure disease potions and you can hope for the best.”

He nodded reluctantly. “Fine.”

He lived in the best cottage in the village, one that was partly stone as well as wood, and his wife was feeding sticks into the fire when they entered. “He’s drunk a little broth but he’s so weak,” she said anxiously to the man.

“Peace, Gerdur. We have a travelling wizard who says she can make cures,” he assured her.

Laina was already pouring an astringent potion she used for cleanliness over her hands as Jordis took up a space in the corner where she could see everything. “I’ll start with a weak fortify health potion made from hanging moss and blue mountain petal, then a cure disease potion of skeever charcoal and dried mudcrab chitin, then another weak stamina potion.”

“Can’t you just wave your hand and…?” Gerdur asked with narrowed eyes.

“If your son’s weak and dehydrated, healing magic may well kill him, as it draws on the body’s innate resources,” Laina said, pulling out the three potions. “Besides, I’ve always held it makes sense to use what the Lady Kyne has given us before I spend my own magicka.”

Frodnar, a sturdy child with his parents’ golden hair, was indeed suffering from the red-spot sickness. Laina trickled each of the potions into his mouth, alternating with sips of water to keep him hydrated, and cast a Calm spell with a spark of turquoise light that sent him into a deeper sleep. Already the angry red spots of the illness, which would leave children weak and women barren, were fading from the strength of her mixtures.

“Keep him on fluids whenever he wakes, keep him home for a week or two, and get him on soft solids as soon as possible,” she advised. “Time and rest will cure faster than magic any day of the week.”

“Thank you,” the man said fervently. “I am Hod and this is my wife Gerdur. We are in your debt!”

Laina shrugged as she stuffed the empty vials back into her pockets. “There isn’t a debt. Red-spot sickness can destroy a community if left unchecked. As a Synodic mage, it’s my duty to do this kind of thing.”

“Synod? Aren’t they the arse-kissing mages of the Empire?” Hod asked.

“Yes,” Laina admitted wryly. “Why do you think I’ve taken a position in Skyrim?”

She turned towards the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a long walk tomorrow. Frodnar will heal if he’s made to rest for at least a week.”

Jordis followed her outside. “I’m pretty sure those two are Stormcloaks.”

“So? I’ve had a bout of red-spot sickness. I’d rather not see it ravage somewhere like it did in Bruma just after the Great War.” Laina pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m tired and we have a long journey tomorrow.”

The warrior nodded. “Good idea.”

…

“Gerdur, I came as soon as I could!”

Ralof accepted his sister’s embrace as Egil walked over to study the bed-bound Frodnar. Ulfric’s younger son was a decent healer, a side effect of being trained as a Vigilant of Stendarr.

“A wizard was in Riverwood last night. She gave Frodnar a few potions and the sickness began to heal almost immediately.” Gerdur squeezed his arms one last time before releasing him. “But Mara’s mercy, it’s good to see you.”

“She did good work,” Egil confirmed after placing his hand on the sleeping Frodnar’s head. “He will heal and live, if he rests.”

“He will,” Gerdur said softly. “She said time and rest would do more than magic ever would.”

“A wise woman.” Egil stepped away from Frodnar’s bed, the shining pommel stone of Dawnbreaker casting strange shadows in the cottage. “College?”

“Synod, she said,” Hod answered. “She was dressed in blue and green robes, had Reacher-tattoos on her hands, and was accompanied by some warrior girl named Jordis.”

Ralof’s eyebrows rose. “Did she have the Kreathling look to her?”

“Yeah, now that you think of it, she did,” Hod confirmed slowly.

“So Torygg’s done as he vowed.” Egil rubbed his nose. “Mother’s reaction will be… interesting.”

Gerdur went from worried mother to shrewd hetwoman. “You know her?”

“She’s my half-sister on my mother’s side,” Egil admitted with a sigh. “From her marriage into the Aurelii.”

“Mother helped officiate that wedding. I was her assistant,” Gerdur said thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I see the resemblance.”

“She’s prettier than you,” Hod said with a wry grin. “_Much_ prettier than your mother.”

Egil frowned. “What does that have to do with it?”

“Hod’s being petty,” Gerdur said, giving her unrepentant husband a chiding look.

“I suppose she’ll be in Whiterun by now,” Egil said, sighing again. “Dammit. I’d have liked to talk to her.”

“The autumn Moot’s coming up,” Gerdur pointed out.

“Yes, in Solitude, where even the pot plants have ears.” Egil squared his shoulders. “Have you any other troubles in the Hold? I know a lot spills over from Falkreath.”

As they went to deal with some bandits in the iron mine just over the hill, Ralof looked back in Whiterun’s direction. If Torygg thought that having Sigdrifa’s daughter as a shield would protect him from her plans, he was very wrong. Everything, including herself, was just a weapon to her hand.


	3. A Bargain for Beautiful Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of genocide, war crimes, religious conflict and imprisonment. Laina has Alchemy at 100 with all perks, and given her chance, she will totally indulge in beauty services and fashion.

By the time they reached the Whiterun stables, Laina had picked fly amanita, the fruits of a hive near a bridge, a new kind of fungus, wild lavender and cotton, mountain flowers in purple and red, and a royal blue butterfly that seemed attracted to all the wildflowers. The Hold itself was a broad verdant green-gold plain cradled by grey mountains that clawed into an ice-blue sky, farms dotting its landscape, and its capital city was three-tiered like Bruma but looked like every mythical Nord city she’d ever read about in the books.

“Whiterun’s a beautiful city,” Jordis observed as Laina studied its grey stone walls. “Second only to Solitude.”

“Of course, if we were to ask them, Solitude would be second to it,” Laina said with a quirk of her lips.

“Of course,” the warrior agreed. “The carriage comes at sunset so that it arrives in Solitude by dawn. Do you want to collect more plants or go into Whiterun?”

“Go into Whiterun. If there’s an alchemy shop, I can spend some time studying these herbs and making up potions to sell.” Laina smiled ruefully at Jordis. “From what I’ve heard of Solitude, I’ll need some spending money.”

“If you don’t go to Radiant Raiment in the first week, you’ll be considered a backwoods churl with no sense of class or fashion,” Jordis confirmed with a wry laugh.

Inside, Whiterun was as cosmopolitan as any city in Cyrodiil, though dominated by rangy golden-blond Nords who wore brightly dyed garb, spoke with the kind of drawling accent both Hod and Gerdur had last night, and were as well-fed as the grandees of County Bruma. The city itself was clean, adorned with gardens of the wildflowers found outside, and revealed a prosperity that Laina was unfamiliar with. Its ruler had to be a good one if its common people were so very prosperous.

When she remarked on this, Jordis nodded. “Jarl Balgruuf is the greatest trader, administrator and diplomat in Skyrim; High King Torygg relies on his advice when it comes to matters of wealth and diplomacy.”

“Even the Imperial City would be rivalled by this place,” Laina observed softly.

“The Great War never got this far, because Jonna’s Nords stopped the Dominion in the Pale Pass on the way south to Red Ring,” Jordis told her. “The Cyrods have no idea of how much they owe us.”

“More likely they don’t want to admit it,” Laina agreed sourly. “So, where’s the alchemy shop?”

Arcadia’s Cauldron was a pleasant little shop smelling of herbs, its owner a handsome older Nibenese woman who wore the long apron-dress and shift popular with women in Whiterun. “An Evoker of the Synod isn’t something I see every day in my store,” she remarked as they entered. “What are you looking for? I have a good Destruction potion made from glow dust and beehive husk.”

“Do you have an alchemy table I can rent for an hour or two?” Laina asked as she approached the counter. “I’m catching the carriage at sunset but I picked up a few ingredients on the way.”

Arcadia grinned. “If you trade me the potions when you’re done, you can use it for free. I can see you’re an experienced alchemist.”

“It was my track at Arcane University. Not as glamourous as Destruction but far more useful when you need some coin.”

They talked shop for a good two hours, Arcadia explaining the uses of the mora tapinella, the wild lavender and tundra cotton, the red and purple mountain flowers, and the blue butterfly wings. “Whiterun would be a Whispers’ mage’s dream come true,” Laina observed on discovering blue mountain flower, wild lavender and blue butterfly wings could make Conjuration potions. Up in the Reach, they used bone meal and Hagraven feathers.

“Our court wizard Farengar is a Conjurer from the College of Winterhold,” Arcadia said as she took the potions of lavender, cotton and blue mountain flower that attuned one’s mind to Oblivion and increased resistance to magic. “He’ll bleed coin for these potions.”

“Glad to see I could be of some service.” Laina had traded the potions she’d made for every magic-enhancing mixture Arcadia had in stock. The alchemist was solid at her craft, suitable for a prosperous city like Whiterun, but Laina’s own preparations were purer and more powerful.

Arcadia set the vials aside. “I didn’t get your name.”

Laina flushed. “Sorry. Laina South-Wind.”

“Wait, the author of _Herbs of the Northern Counties_?”

“And _Wings Over Bruma: Dragon Cult Ruins of the Southern Jeralls,_” Laina confirmed. “If I ever write a treatise on Skyrim’s herbs, I fully intend to mention you as the one to teach me of the ingredients from the plains.”

The alchemist grinned. “Oronrel’s funnier but you’re more thorough.”

“Thank you. I trained under the First Adjunct.”

Jordis, who’d gone to look at the rest of the marketplace, opened the door. “Laina, we’ve got about three hours until sunset.”

Laina offered her hand and Arcadia took it, giving a firm dry shake. “Thank you for the lessons, Arcadia.”

“Thank _you_ for the potions.”

There was a visit to the general store, run by a sleazy little Breton whose wares were a little underwhelming compared to the jeweller’s stall manned by the wife of ‘Skyrim’s greatest wonder-smith, Eorlund Grey-Mane himself’. Even in Bruma Laina had heard of Eorlund and the histories she’d read spoke of smiths who could forge enchantments into their weapons without needing a soul gem. If the surprisingly delicate gold and silver jewellery was anything to go by, he was truly one of the great smiths.

“I’d have expected a mage to wear more enchanted jewellery,” observed Fralia as Laina examined some of the simpler silver pieces. “Eorlund doesn’t enchant these wares as he expects mages prefer to do it themselves.”

“I’m more likely to put my coins into alchemical ingredients or new robes than a flash bit of jewellery,” Laina admitted with a laugh. “My ring’s an heirloom from a great-great-grandmother.”

“Well, you won’t find better silver in Skyrim. Comes from the Reach, it does – like some of your blood, if those tattoos mean anything.”

“Cidhna or Suaranach?” Laina asked quietly. “My granma was exiled from the Reach after the Markarth Incident and I won’t buy from the Silver-Bloods on principle.”

“Suaranach,” Fralia told her. “Even we Grey-Manes were disappointed in Ulfric after that, and his mother the aunt of my husband. Those Silver-Bloods are as bad as the Battle-Borns, and _those_ dung-sniffers crawl up the backside of every Imperial official to visit Whiterun.”

Laina chose not to comment on that, instead selecting a small silver ring etched with Nordic interlace. Thirty septims – it was a month’s rent for her room back at the hostel in Bruma.

“Thank you, child.” Fralia beamed at her. “May Kyne keep Her hand on you.”

“I hope so,” Laina said softly. “I’ll be needing it.”

The carriage came, as Jordis predicted, at sunset and by the time the moons had risen it was trundling across the plains to Hjaalmarch and then Haafingar beyond that. Even after years of marching around Cyrodiil, Laina could barely comprehend how _empty_ Skyrim was in comparison.

She fell asleep somewhere past a village called Rorikstead. She’d gotten soft in Bruma despite her hikes into the Jeralls, it seemed, because she didn’t wake up until they were at Dragon Bridge.

The carriage let them off at Katla’s Farm just after breakfast because, by Imperial law, no horses were permitted closer to Solitude’s walls. From here, Laina could see the famed docks and harbour of Haafingar, the arch that dominated much of it, and the bogs that comprised the majority of Hjaalmarch just across the water. According to _An Herbalist’s Guide to Skyrim,_ many strange herbs and ingredients could be found there; if Torygg permitted it, she might spend a day or two in Hjaalmarch to catalogue what she could.

Jordis sighed in relief. “We’re home.”

“Am I commanded to present myself on arrival?” Laina asked, wrinkling her nose at the state of her robes. “I’d really like to have a bath and change into my other set of robes before going to the court.”

Jordis chewed her bottom lip for a moment. “The High King doesn’t hold audiences until the third hour past dawn. The Winking Skeever has a bathhouse and laundry service. For about ten septims, Corpulus will let us use them.”

“Ten septims?” Laina asked in disbelief. “I should hope there’s a hot spring and a massage for that! Even the Jerall View only charged five.”

“It’s a little pricy but Radiant Raiment’s service is about fifty,” Jordis said dryly.

“What would fifty septims get me?” Laina asked as they began to climb the hill.

“Hairstyling, make up, manicure and pedicure, bath in fragrant oils and an Alinorian beauty massage,” Jordis answered. “The sisters who run the shop are Altmer couturiers from the Summerset Isles.”

Laina pursed her lips. “I’ll have these robes cleaned at the Winking Skeever and take the Radiant Raiment’s beauty service. How long does it take?”

“Three hours, I’m told.” Jordis gave her a sideways glance. “You’re objecting to ten septims for a bath but willing to pay fifty for a luxurious one?”

“Back in Cyrodiil, it’d be more like two hundred in the Imperial City. One thing I learned whenever I represented the Synod at the Emperor’s court was that good grooming could overcome many a shortcoming.” Laina smiled crookedly at Jordis’ eyebrow. “Ten septims for a bath and soap is somewhat outrageous. Fifty septims for an Altmer beauty service is a bargain.”

Radiant Raiment was decorated in a mixture of Altmer and Nord style, focusing mostly on the exotic and luxurious. One of the Altmer sisters stood behind a counter, a prune-faced womer of middle age, while the other was leaning against the wall. Both of them were dressed in Alinorian fashion modified for the harsher winters of Skyrim, bright quilted brocades trimmed with lush snowy fur and intricate embroidery. Even from here, Laina could see the quality of their work.

“Welcome to Radiant Raiment. If you need to ask the price, then you’re in the wrong store,” the womer behind the counter announced haughtily.

“Obviously,” Laina said dryly. “I was told you ran a beauty service…?”

“Fifty septims,” said the womer at the wall.

“Yes, I was told that too.” Laina pulled out a pouch of coin. “If it’s possible, I would like to do it this morning. I need to go to the Blue Palace.”

“I _do_ hope you have clean robes,” the first sister said with a wrinkled nose.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Standard Synodic Evoker’s uniform in the Colovian style.” Laina met and held the womer’s gaze.

“Endarie,” said the other sister in Altmeris. “We might have that opportunity.”

Endarie raised an eyebrow. “What opportunity, Taarie? Auriel knows most Synodic mages don’t have much in the way of style.”

“I speak your language,” Laina said mildly. “My lack of style isn’t due to personal preference but the stipend that the Synod feels is fit for Evokers, and of the yearly allotment of robes, the Colovian is more practical for my work as an alchemist.”

“Alchemist?” Taarie straightened her posture. “Can you make scents and beauty products?”

“Mostly oils for the scents as they have aromatherapeutic properties, but give me the recipes you need and I can replicate them if the herbs are available,” Laina said promptly, pulling out her silver double-hand Evoker’s medallion, the open eye in each palm green and purple, denoting mastery of alchemy and enchanting respectively.

“Well, the Aedra sometimes do look out for their children,” Taarie said, returning to Tamrielic. “Winter’s coming out and we’re looking to get some new customers in High King Torygg’s court, in particular his wife Elisif. If we were to give you the beauty service for free and a set of robes for the court, would you happen to drop a few hints as to where you got them?”

Endarie began rubbing her hands. “I knew there was a reason we brought that turquoise wool robe from the Khajiit. Are we going for courtly attire or mage garb, dear sister?”

“Mage robes,” Laina said quietly. “I’ve been invited by Torygg for that reason. I try to stay out of politics.”

“You’re in Solitude. Politics will follow you whether you like it or not.” Taarie gave Jordis an assessing glance. “Would you like something for your bodyguard? I could do something with that corn-silk hair…”

“I’ll pass,” Jordis said quickly. “Laina, I’ll be at the Winking Skeever.”

“Thanks.” Laina smiled at her. “You were right about these two.”

What followed was three hours of what could only be described as the kind of pampering that surely existed in Dibella’s part of Aetherius. Laina washed herself in fragrant oil-scented water, then sat in a comfortable chair as Taarie attended to her nails and Endarie combed out her hair, trimmed the ends, and treated it with herbs to add shine. No wonder noblewomen spent hours doing this!

“How old are you, if I may ask?” Taarie asked at one point.

“Thirty, but I practice both Alteration and Restoration,” Laina told her.

“Hmm… I’m thinking kohl for the eyes and a slightly darker pinkish-brown for the lips. There’s not a lot we can do about your scar, though.”

“A draugr did that to me when I was an Apprentice,” Laina said with a shrug. “I wound up with the stalhrim sword, at least.”

“I’ve heard Jarls would sell their souls for a weapon of stalhrim,” Endarie observed. “Are you Nord or Redguard?”

“Nord with a Redguard father and Colovian grandfather. Mother was Kreathling, if it helps.”

“Yes, you do resemble Siddgeir to a certain extent.”

Once it was time to get dressed, Endarie laid out the turquoise robe she’d spoken of, with a long tawny-gold cotton shift split at the front for ease of movement, black pants to be tucked into simple fur-lined boots of the same colour, and a braided belt of blue and green seaglass beads that could only have come from Hammerfell.

“You’ll do,” Endarie said with some satisfaction. “If you can’t drum up business for us at court, you can pay us two hundred septims in a few days, or make up a selection of fragrant oils for free.”

Laina was smiling broadly as she examined herself in the glass mirror. “You live up to your reputation,” she told the sisters.

“Of course we do,” Taarie said, looking momentarily pleased. “Now go and impress the court. We’re counting on you.”


	4. Arrival at the Court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of religious conflict, imprisonment, torture and war crimes. This story will go for longer than I realised, lol.

“High King, I present to you Jordis the Sword-Maiden and Evoker Laina South-Wind of the Synod!”

Falk Firebeard’s voice carried across the audience chamber and stilled the whispered conversations among the courtiers. All eyes turned towards the huscarl, whose hair and armour gleamed from recent cleaning, and the mage who accompanied her. That Laina had obviously taken time with her appearance was apparent; whoever her tailor was, they were a genius, because they’d chosen an outfit that combined all elements of her ancestry in colours that brought out the olive-bronze of her skin and the blue-green of her eyes. A far cry from the subdued sorceress who stood at the peripherals of the Imperial Court, attending reluctantly at the order of the Synod or the Elder Council.

Elisif and Torygg remained seated as she approached and bowed precisely. It was something of a gamble, bringing the last of the Aurelii to their court, but in the end Torygg judged it worth the risk. The Queen of Skyrim was wise enough to know that it wouldn’t hold the hand of the Stormsword when the rebellion came but… it might make her sons think twice about attacking the court where their sister served. Even if Egil paused, it would buy them time.

“Welcome to Solitude,” Torygg said with a regal inclination of his head.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Laina answered in that low, pleasant voice of hers. When pressed to sing, it was more of a hoarse caw not unlike her mother’s voice, but it was pleasant enough when she stuck to speech.

Torygg smiled slightly. “Now, we already have a court wizard in Sybille Stentor, so you were not called here to take her place.”

“Sybille Stentor’s grasp of magical theory, in particular the efficient conversion of magicka into temperature extremes, exceeds my understanding considerably,” Laina agreed. “Though I do believe my paper on removing impurities from raw materials scored better than hers when they were marking the Adept-level assessments for Alteration.”

“Probably,” the amber-eyed Breton sorceress admitted. “I was always better at Destruction than Alteration.”

“Then I’m sure you two will complement each other,” Torygg said. “But I brought you here, Laina, because you are one of the greatest authorities on pre-Septim Nordic magic.”

He rose from the Wolf Throne. “Once, our spiritual lives did not revolve around an Emperor who was eventually – and falsely – called a Divine. We are the children of Shor, we worship the Eight Divines as a unified pantheon belonging to man and mer and beast-kin, and it is high time we returned to those roots instead of venerating a false god.”

Elisif knew all of this was going to happen, because Torygg had talked it over long and thoroughly with her and Falk, but hearing his goals spoken aloud in the court was still a minor shock. The High King was challenging the Old Holds’ assertion that they were the truest of Nords, followers of the old ways and true heirs of the legacy of Ysgramor. He was trying to pull the rug out from Ulfric and Sigdrifa’s justifications for their refusal to abide by the White-Gold Concordat – and looking to strengthen Nord culture against the undermining of the Thalmor Justicars.

She scanned the audience chamber to judge the court’s reaction. Falk gave her a curt nod, Bryling was smiling in pleasure, and Erikur was calculating how much coin he could make from this announcement. Beroc, the Redguard ambassador, seemed more amused than anything else while Imperial Governor Stilicho was frowning thoughtfully. Her father’s representative maintained an expression of cool disdain for the barbarity of Torygg’s court and the Redoran womer who represented Morrowind was rubbing her chin.

But was Elenwen and Ondolemar, the Thalmor’s representatives, who she watched the closest. The Madame Ambassador looked amused and a little surprised while Ondolemar was openly smirking. Elisif always found him hard to pin down; he seemed dedicated to the Dominion’s goals but he was also frank about their intention to start another war in due time, which no doubt undermined Elenwen’s plans. No wonder he was kept in Markarth most of the time.

“I _do_ hope this isn’t a plan to return to the barbarities of Ysgramor, Hoag Merkiller and Borgas,” Elenwen finally observed, breaking the silence. “We’re all doing _so_ well with peace and cooperation between our peoples.”

“Perhaps when I publish whatever treatise on pre-Septim Nord spirituality the High King will require of me, I’ll send you a copy with the paragraphs about the _majority_ of the peaceful history between Altmer and Nord outlined for your easy perusal,” Laina suggested. “Nord-mer clashes have usually been with the Dunmer over territorial disputes for the past two thousand years.”

Ondolemar actually gave a low wicked laugh. “Well said, child, well said.”

Elenwen smiled thinly. “Your scholarship is famed across Cyrodiil, my dear. You’ve transcended the thuggish origins of the Aurelii. I look forward to such a treatise.”

Elisif decided that one was a draw.

“To that end, I name Laina South-Wind court researcher for Haafingar,” Torygg said after a moment. “You will receive quarters in the Blue Palace, a stipend of five hundred septims a quarter, the freedom of the Hold and a personal huscarl in the form of Jordis the Sword-Maiden. In return, you are to investigate the archives of the Bards College and any ruins that may be of interest for items relating to pre-Septim Nord magic and spirituality.”

The High King smiled. “In short, what you’ve been doing for the past six years.”

Laina bowed precisely once more. “I would be honoured to accept, Your Majesty.”

Torygg shared a quick triumphant glance with Elisif before speaking once. “And we are pleased to have you.”

He clapped his hands. “I think that concludes the audiences for today. Now, who’s up for some lunch?”

…

Beroc usually retired for the midmeal because it was a good time to review documents and reports over a light lunch of yogurt, fruit and bread. At eighty-two years of age, his digestion couldn’t handle the copious amounts of meat and alcohol thought appropriate to a Nord meal more than once a day. But today, he made an exception, for it promised to be an interesting time.

The woodcuts and sketches of Forebear agents didn’t do Rustem’s elder child justice, he mused as he accepted a cup of wine from a server. She’d inherited the warrior’s aquiline profile, combining it pleasingly with the high cheekbones and square jaw of her mother. To a Redguard, it was obvious she was Nord-dominant, but Yokudan blood softened the craggy, angular lines so many Nords had. Her charisma didn’t equal Rustem’s for raw force, but she was more mannerly than the Stormsword, with some experience of knowing when to keep her mouth shut about something. It was as if the strengths of her parents had blended moderately in her nature, eliminating much of their flaws in the process. No doubt she had a few personality defects of her own.

“Enough about draugr,” Elisif said with a laugh after Laina described how she’d gotten the strange blue-white scar on her face. “I need to know the real mystery: who is your tailor?”

“Endarie and Taarie of Radiant Raiment,” was Laina’s immediate reply. “I went in there for the beauty service and walked out with an outfit fit for a court presentation.”

“So they found someone to model their wares, did they?” Erikur Many-Ships, a Thane as shrewd with coins as he was unpleasant in nature, laughed coarsely. “They’ve been trying for a month or more.”

“And if they did, what of it?” Laina asked. “I had a pleasant three hours soaking in a fragrant bath, getting my hair and nails tended to, and then being given an outfit that is both stylish and practical. If the courtiers place orders with the sisters, I will have earned it, and if they don’t, I have enough skill in alchemy to create the items which are suitable for barter or coin to pay for it. There is no shame in an honest trading of skills, be it in a village or be it in a city.”

_This one has learned to use honesty as a weapon,_ Beroc mused as he sipped his wine.

“Well said,” Bryling approved. She and Erikur cordially despised each other in a way that made for much court entertainment. “You remind me of Egil, your brother. He was my squire for four years.”

“I imagine I have traits in common with the Ulfricssons. The Stormsword has a way of leaving her mark on people.” Laina drank from a goblet of snowberry juice.

“Egil is my friend,” Torygg interjected as Erikur opened his mouth once more. “He is ascetic by nature more than the influence of his parents, I think. Very intelligent and studious. I’d love to have him back at court but…”

“But his parents are planning treason and because we haven’t got the proof, we can’t bring them to trial before the Moot,” Stilicho finished with a sigh. “Any attempts to retrieve information about those two ends up with the agent fed to something large and carnivorous.”

“If I weaken the laws of proof, that could be used against anyone, and I will not allow my country to become a place of paranoia, distrust and accusation,” Torygg said firmly. “One Dengeir is enough. I will not make more.”

“I can only pray to Akatosh your good intentions aren’t your end,” Stilicho said quietly.

Beroc accepted a piece of crumbling goat’s cheese and a small slice of bread from the server. “Perhaps I will order some things from Radiant Raiment for my daughter Safiya. She loves pretty things as a child loves candy.”

“I did see some good premade robes and gowns,” Laina said, audibly glad for the change of subject.

“Well, _I_ intend to order several dresses for the coming winter,” Elisif declared. “My wardrobe’s more suited to the warmth of Cyrodiil than the cold of Skyrim. Should I go for the Snow Queen aesthetic or something more vivid to chase the chill away?”

“It might sound strange, but cooler tones make you feel colder and warmer tones warm you up,” Laina observed.

“My Safiya says the same thing,” Beroc confirmed.

“Then vivid it is!” Elisif examined a coppery lock. “It’s a shame my hair would clash terribly with the yellows and oranges.”

“Even if your hair wasn’t the problem, your complexion is too delicate for them,” Torygg pointed out. “You’d look jaundiced in them.”

“I know.” The Queen grimaced. “Laina, did you see anything in a darker scarlet or maroon?”

“I think I did. If it isn’t on the shelves, I’m sure they’ll have something out the back.” Laina laughed softly, ruefully. “Aside from the obvious, my knowledge of fashion is limited. The Workhouse, the Synod and the Legion were concerned with other matters, and no matter how well you’re dressed, the draugr don’t care.”

“No draugr at the table!” Elisif declared with a theatrical shudder.

Beroc settled back in his chair and continued to observe. Somehow, some way, there would have to be a way for Hammerfell to profit from this. In the meantime, he would do as he ever had: watch and wait.


	5. News on the Family Front

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. Still procrastinating on my final assessments, hence the loads of chapters, lol. Yes, Dewin is a shout out to the Dewey System.
> 
> …

“Welcome to the Bards’ College. Are you looking to join?”

Laina arched her eyebrows at the rough-voiced Altmer with silver-threaded flaxen hair with a rueful twitch to the lips. “My singing’s been compared to the squabbling of seagulls over fish at the docks, sir, and not favourably. So no, I’m not here to join, but I would like to use your library if permissible.”

“The library is open to everyone,” the mer said with a wry smile. “I’m guessing you would be High King Torygg’s new researcher, correct?”

“I am,” Laina said with a bow of the head. “Laina South-Wind, at your service.”

“Viarmo Torrensson.” Well, that explained the coarseness of his hair and his position as Dean of the Bards’ College. Laina shook his hand briefly. “I’m a little surprised he chose a mage and not a historian or even bard, if you don’t mind me saying. I have some gifted students.”

Laina reached into her satchel and produced two copies of the books she’d authored back in Cyrodiil. “I’ve written _Herbs of the Northern Counties_ and _Wings Over Bruma: Dragon Cult Ruins in the Southern Jeralls._ Given his interest in reconnecting with pre-Septim Nordic history, he felt my particular specialty was suited to the position.”

“Ah. So you’re a serious scholar in addition to being a Synodic mage. Where did you find the time in between the politics?”

“I never played. My grandfather was Arius Aurelius.”

Viarmo winced. “I’ve heard the story.”

“It was more unpleasant to live it.” Laina offered up the two volumes. “Consider this a personal gift to your library.”

“Thank you.” Viarmo opened a book, fingers running over the fine leather of its cover. “Ah, Arcane University Press! You’d be surprised how many people donate their handwritten or vanity printed works and then complain how we aren’t adding them to the Poetic Edda. You, at least, are published by someone reputable.”

“Back in Cyrodiil, we use those books as compost for the gardens, and reuse the covers for more suitable volumes,” Laina said wryly.

“Some of the prose is so bad I’m worried it might poison the dragon tongue if we do that here,” Viarmo observed as they climbed the stairs to the library. “Now, this is the second biggest collection of books in Skyrim. The first is at the College of Winterhold – the Ysmir Collective.”

“Hmm, I hope they don’t hold the fact I’m a Synodic mage against me. We haven’t exactly made friends with the independent academies over the past few decades.” Laina placed her hands together. “So, my first area of investigation is the Dragon Cult. Where can I find information on that?”

Viarmo waved at the library. “Towards the back, I think.”

Two hours later, Laina had only made progress by resorting to a Clairvoyance spell in order to find the relevant books. _Ahzidal’s Descent_ had provided the first real information on the Dragon Priests, the semi-mythical intermediaries between man and dragon during pre-Dragon War times, and _Four Totems of Volskygge _pointed out a potential Cult ruin. If the bards were the keepers of Skyrim’s lore, it explained the shambolic state of academia outside of the College of Winterhold!

_Gods, if Haafingar alone holds this much information, what do the other Holds contain?_ Laina collected her notes and replaced the books. She should definitely introduce the College to Evoker Dewin’s revolutionary library system at some point. It would make everyone’s life easier.

Sunset hung low and red over Solitude as she left the Bards’ College. It was her fifth day in the city and today was the first chance she’d gotten to actually do her job. She wanted to have something substantial for Torygg by the end of next week; perhaps an expedition to Volskygge with Jordis would be on the cards. Torygg had mentioned the Kilkreath Ruins, providing her with a translation of the Dragonish inscription written down by her half-brother Egil Ulfricsson.

_This is a strange sort of civil unrest,_ she mused as she headed back to the Blue Palace. _My mother and her husband are blatantly preaching sedition and treason yet there’s no proof? Skyrim’s laws must be stricter on the subject than Cyrodiil’s._

Or maybe it was bad politics to accuse a Jarl of treason without the bloody sword in hand, proverbially speaking.

Dinner was served across two hours in the Blue Palace, giving Laina enough time to give her hair a quick brush and wash the ink stains from her hands. Her outfit from Radiant Raiment was suitable for formal occasions; her two sets of Synodic robes were suitable enough for everyday wear and with access to the Blue Palace’s laundry, she was able to wear one set for two days while the other was getting cleaned. The Altmer sisters sold a variety of mage robes, both enchanted and unenchanted, but grand soul gems were thin on the ground in Solitude. So she made do for now.

Tonight’s dinner was rare venison cutlets in a spicy elf’s ear sauce served on saltrice imported from Morrowind, salmon poached in white wine, a mess of leeks and cabbages, and clean snow drizzled with juniper, snowberry and jazbay syrup. No one from the Thalmor Embassy was present but Beroc, the eagle-eyed Redguard ambassador, was seated next to Falk at the table. Laina knew that her father Rustem had a child with Beroc’s daughter Safiya, a lad named Cirroc. Was the old man concerned that she might be a threat?

“Found anything useful?” Thane Erikur asked as she sat down.

“Nothing that would interest you,” Laina replied, serving herself one cutlet and some greens, accepting a goblet of mead from the server.

“How do you know that?”

“There wasn’t any mention of gold or treasure,” Bryling observed before Laina could answer.

“No, just Dragon Priests and draugr,” Laina confirmed.

“Laina, I said no draugr at the table!” Elisif exclaimed from her seat next to Torygg.

“Sorry, Your Highness,” Laina said contritely.

“We’re having the Autumn Moot in a couple weeks,” Bryling said as Laina cut into her venison. “Your mother and brothers will no doubt attend.”

“Maybe after a couple weeks, I’ll have something civil to say to her,” Laina said after a mouthful of venison.

“Well, after Rikke nearly choked her a year ago, she’ll seize on any potential insult as a means to undermine the High King’s court,” Bryling warned.

“Pity Rikke failed,” complained Erikur.

“_Thankfully_, your brothers won’t be so unpleasant,” Bryling continued after glaring at Erikur. “Bjarni’s very boisterous and a lot smarter than he looks. He’s popular with the churls and non-Nords in Eastmarch because he’s a bit of a rowdy in the taverns. Egil’s preferred by the Thanes and nobility because he’s quieter. He actually wields Dawnbreaker, the Daedric artefact of Meridia, and is a noted hunter of the undead.”

“Yet none of them did us the favour of eating him,” muttered Erikur.

“That’s _enough_, Erikur.” Torygg’s voice was soft but firm.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Erikur didn’t sound too chastened.

“I will worry about it when the time comes,” Laina said, drinking some wine. “Until then, I will do the job I’m expected to.”

…

“That wet-eared little shit!”

Bjarni tilted back the bottle to get the last of the mead. “Is that you, me or Torygg?” he asked his brother.

“I haven’t done anything to annoy her and she hasn’t found out about that barmaid you’re having a fling with yet, so I’d say it’s Torygg,” Egil observed with a wince as something smashed. “She’s been hot as smoked hornets since I brought the news that… well.”

“Why, because Laina’s in Skyrim or because it was Torygg who brought her here?”

“All of the above,” remarked Ralof dryly.

“You three should show more respect for the Stormsword,” Avulstein Grey-Mane, the fourth at their table, pointed out. “She’s your mother and your commander.”

“Mother’s doing an excellent imitation of a fishwife on the docks,” Egil noted. “I hope she gains control of herself before we make the trip to Solitude. It’s going to be hard enough.”

Galmar exited the family’s private quarters with a shudder. “I don’t know whether I should be impressed or appalled at Torygg’s gall.”

“You can’t stop there,” Bjarni pointed out, draining the dregs from his bottle.

“He’s brought your sister to Skyrim to research ancient Nord magic because ‘we need to return our roots instead of venerating a false god’,” Galmar said heavily, accepting a bottle of mead from Ralof.

“That’s… actually clever, if you get over the reflexive outrage at the denial of Talos,” Egil observed, wincing again as the Stormsword’s unlovely voice reached another crescendo. “It appeals to our nationalism without breaking the White-Gold Concordat. You know there’s plenty of folk who worship the old aspects of the gods who’d support it.”

“Heh. I’ll settle on the side of impressed when you put it like that.” Galmar popped the cork and swallowed half the mead in one long draught. “It won’t change anything when we march, but I can respect the boy for trying his best.”

“What’s taking us so long? Istlod’s been dead for over a year, Ulfric’s not bound by his oath-“ Avulstein began, only to be silenced by Galmar’s raised hand.

“There’s a rumour going around that someone’s performed the Black Sacrament for Titus fucking Mede himself,” the huscarl replied after another long swallow of mead. “If we wait until that old bastard’s dead, the Empire will be mourning and distracted.”

“I thought Mother couldn’t raise the coin to do it?” Egil asked with a slight edge to his voice. He really didn’t approve of Sigdrifa’s use of the Brotherhood to soften up the Imperial Holds before they went to war.

“I’d say it’s Motierre backed by the Thalmor,” Bjarni replied. “Rustem Aurelius is on board because he hates the Empire worse than we do. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to do the deed himself.”

“A toast to my favourite Redguard!” Ralof said, lifting his bottle. “May his naginata bring sorrow to the Empire!”

Galmar and Bjarni raised their own bottles. “Hear, hear!”

“As for your mother’s…” Galmar winced as something else smashed, “_Reaction,_ Torygg’s move has put your sister square on the other side of us. As a member of Torygg’s court, she’ll have to defend Haafingar.”

“Not if a couple of our lads sneak into Solitude, put a bag over her head and bring her to Eastmarch,” Bjarni suggested for the umpteenth time. “Once she’s in Windhelm, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“Or we’ll return to half of Windhelm in ruins and a dead mother, sister or both,” Egil pointed out.

“You’ll get to meet her at the Moot, I imagine. We can gauge what to do with her after we’ve seen her in the flesh.” Galmar swallowed the last of his mead and stood up. “She has no reason to love any of us and all the reason in the world to hate all of us. Remember that.”

He went back into the family quarters, now fortified with alcohol.

“We could try gifts,” Avulstein suggested tentatively. “She’s an alchemist, right?”

Bjarni smacked his palms together. “Of course! We’ve got the Aalto at our doorstep and we’ll be going through the Rift. A nice collection of troll fat, jazbay grapes, scaly pholiata, dragon tongue, creep cluster and all the other rare ingredients of the Old Holds hand-delivered to her by her loving brothers! What respected alchemist would say no to that?”

He jumped to his feet. “I say we go now. Most of us know how to collect and preserve alchemical ingredients. Who’s with me?”

“I’m not sure I’m up to running around after trolls and-“ Avulstein winced as Ulfric’s voice joined the tirade, making the Palace of the Kings tremble. “I’m up to it. Trolls have a sweeter temper than your mother in a mood.”

“I’ll stay,” Egil said softly. “Someone needs to make sure they get themselves together.”

“You two need adult supervision, so I’m coming,” Ralof said.

“But we are adults,” Avulstein protested.

“More so than our parents at the moment,” Egil muttered.


	6. Silencing the Stormsword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, child abuse, imprisonment, torture, religious and conflict.

The autumn Moot of 4E198 had begun.

Laina twisted the Jewel of the Rumare on her thumb as the Jarls and their retinues marched into the courtyard of the Temple of All Gods, the only place in Solitude big enough to fit the hundred or so people gathered for the Moot. She had a place on the balcony overlooking it, standing across from Sybille Stentor on the other balcony, both of them with powerful Harmony scrolls to hand in case folks got hostile. Given Ulfric and Sigdrifa’s contempt for anything west of Ivarstead, it wasn’t unlikely.

Ulfric was a wheat-blond man in heavy bearskins and light chainmail whose presence was designed to shock and awe others. Beside him, Sigdrifa marched in the totemic armour Laina dimly remembered from her childhood, streaks of silver the only sign of age. Bjarni and Egil were versions of their father with Sigdrifa’s colouring, one wearing an axe and the other the radiant blade that could only be Dawnbreaker. There was a grey-bearded brute in bearskins, a rangy blond in a bearskin cloak and a dark-haired man in fine wool.

Laina glanced down the row of seats to the Crowned Stag of Falkreath, where her infamous mage-hating grandfather Dengeir sat. He was old and greying with a bad combover, his cotton brocade decades out of date and a definite palsy in his hands. A long-suffering Altmer sat next to him.

The other Jarls were a motley lot, though Idgrod Ravencrone stood out for the startling resemblance to Laina’s grandmother Catriona in human form. Balgruuf of Whiterun was easily the most splendid in his white fur-trimmed indigo silks and golden jewellery, outshining even the handsome young Torygg.

It took a while for everyone to get settled, the Jarls and High King seated in a ring of chairs, everyone else at the back and sides. When the noise died down, it wasn’t Torygg who spoke, but a tired-looking grey-haired Nord in wolf-emblazoned enamelled plate.

“Be welcome to the Moot. In the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, let all here be as siblings and come together in peace.”

“You forgot Talos!” bellowed the grey-haired brute by Ulfric’s side.

“Anyone who cannot abide by this simple rule will be removed,” continued the old Nord pointedly.

“Peace, Galmar,” Ulfric said in his deep baritone. “We will have our say.”

“Maybe you could try letting someone _else_ speak for a change, Ulfric,” remarked Legate Primus Rikke.

“Good luck with that,” muttered the balding Jarl Igmund of the Reach. “The man loves the sound of his own voice.”

“Enough!” The old warrior’s voice cracked like a whip. “Are you Jarls or are you spoilt children?”

Amazingly, the chiding worked, the Jarls and their people shuffling like told-off children.

“I give the floor to you, High King Torygg.” The old warrior nodded and stepped back into the crowd.

“Thank you, Harbinger Kodlak,” the auburn-haired young man said as he rose to his feet. “It has been twenty-three years since the end of the Great War-“

“Amazing, you can count,” observed Dengeir sarcastically.

“Well, yes, I do have a full set of wits, which is more than I can say for a certain Jarl from the south,” Torygg retorted acidly.

“Are you implying I’m mad?”

“There’s no implication about it,” Balgruuf drawled. “Now will everyone shut up and let the boy speak? I’d like to get Ulfric’s inevitable call to rebellion over and done with before dinner this time around.”

“As I was saying,” Torygg said after a deep breath, “It has been twenty-three years since the end of the Great War. We have struggled and worked to overcome the trauma of that horrific conflict-“

“By selling out Talos,” Sigdrifa said clearly. “How can you call yourself a Nord-?”

Laina straightened up, gathered magicka to her palm and cast Muffle on the Stormsword. Sigdrifa’s mouth worked for a moment before she realised she’d been magically silenced. Her face flushed purple and her hand groped for her sword. When fingers closed around its hilt, she removed them in a hurry because Laina also heated up the hilt with a distant-cast Flames spell.

“I have to admit, I’ve waited twenty-three years to do that,” Laina announced as everyone gasped. “For the love of Kynareth, let your High King speak! I’ve seen better manners in the Anvil Third.”

“Is it permanent?” Rikke asked hopefully.

“No. Your Majesty, I believe you were speaking?”

“Thank you, Evoker.” Torygg sighed explosively and begun anew. “We have worked and we have struggled to overcome the trauma of that horrific conflict. We won, and we lost… or so we believed. For centuries, we worshipped a man – a great man, a true hero of Skyrim, one certainly touched by the gods – as a deity. Nords wrapped their entire national identity around Talos, for was he not the epitome of everything we value?”

He drank from the goblet of wine on the table beside him. “We had gods before the false raising of Talos and we still have them afterwards. Kyne, Shor, Ysmir, Jhunal, Tsun, Stuhn, Mara, Dibella… We have the Divines. Other races who dwell in harmony with us have the Three Reclamations, Malacath and the gods of the Redguards. Even the Forsworn acknowledge the power of the Aedra in all Their myriad forms.”

The High King put the goblet down and clasped his hands together. “Instead of mourning Talos, let us embrace our ancient roots! We had a culture before Tiber Septim and there is no reason why we cannot draw from it to grow as a nation and as a people. I offer this chance, for Old Hold and New, for east and west and south and north, to begin anew on the roots of the ancient.”

“And what would a boy raised in Cyrodiil know of our ancient ways?” Ulfric demanded, rising to his feet. “What do you know of Kyne and Shor? Talos is the true god of man!”

“If a genocidal tyrant who used deception, trickery, dishonour and betrayal is the best humanity can do as a deity, you’ve got a long way to go,” Elenwen of the Thalmor sneered.

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Korir of Winterhold pointed out as Ulfric went red-faced with fury.

“Who cares who fights for what dead god?” snapped a lean, black-haired man in armour like Kodlak’s. “What matters to Tsun and Shor in the end is how we have fought and died. Sovngarde awaits the courageous.”

“We’re all meat for the World-Eater at the end of days,” Bjarni Ulfricsson remarked laconically. “My main problem is that we have an outside power telling us who we can and can’t worship. Can’t the Thalmor just piss off back to Aetherius so the rest of us can enjoy Nirn in peace?”

“All of us are god-sparks trapped in a fleshly prison by the lies of Lorkhan,” Elenwen told him with a sigh. “I know it seems strange, Bjarni, but I’m fighting to free us all.”

“Yes. I’m sure the hot irons and chains and rack are _very_ persuasive.”

“Do we have anything serious to discuss or we will bitch about comparative theology all day?” Balgruuf asked sardonically.

“Always the gold-hungry one, aren’t you?” Ulfric asked him.

“My people are well-fed and wear garb of many colours while yours eke a living from the permafrost and wear rags,” Balgruuf countered bluntly. “If me wanting my Hold to be prosperous is gold-hungry, then call me gold-hungry.”

The discussion moved to trade but Laina could still sense the tension underneath. Ulfric and his people were a keg of Direnni Fire waiting that first fatal spark.

Kodlak called the Moot to a close at sunset with another invocation to Kyne and Shor. The final words had barely left his lips when the crowd started to break up into the knots they’d entered as.

There was no way to leave the area without going through the courtyard. Sadly, that meant Sigdrifa bore down on Laina like a pirate ship under full sail in a strong wind, her face thunder and lightning. “Your first act on meeting your family is to silence your mother? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“If I’d had a mother, maybe I would be,” Laina said with a sigh.

“I had no reason to believe you were alive because you didn’t tell the Imperials your real name!”

“No, you just decided to pretend I never existed for a good eight, nine years instead.” Laina shook her head. “Father wasn’t much of a husband, I admit. But the Kreathling side of the family is as bad as the Aurelii.”

“Hey! I wanted to bring you to Skyrim so you could be a real Nord!” Bjarni protested.

“Bjarni, shut up,” Sigdrifa said absently.

“No, Sigdrifa, _you_ shut up for once in your fucking life,” Laina told her flatly. “I don’t recall a single word of praise or kindness from you, only ‘do more, be more, you’re the daughter of a Shieldmaiden and a Blade’. Everything I have done has been on my own efforts and a little help from a few friends. When you die, there will be no mourners, only a great cry of relief from all of Skyrim. Kynareth knows I’ll be among them.”

She turned away to look Bjarni and Egil in the eye. “My door is always open if you two want to talk. I have no intention of raising a hand unless someone invades Haafingar. You’re men now, my brothers. You need to decide what you will live and die for.”

“You think they should deny all they’ve been taught because you don’t like – with justification, I’ll concede – your mother?” asked the grey-bearded brute.

Laina smiled crookedly. “I certainly wouldn’t want to die for anything my mother preaches. Living with her as a child was bad enough; Sovngarde would be Oblivion incarnate if I did it for eternity.”

“Then you’re no daughter of mine!” Sigdrifa snapped.

“Was I ever?” Laina asked as she turned away.


	7. What Nords Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, child abuse and child abandonment.

“I know I shouldn’t say this, Egil, but Laina casting Muffle on your mother was the highlight of my day,” Torygg admitted with a grin as he poured them mead. Dinner had been a rather strained affair after the sorceress had shredded Sigdrifa to pieces – not without justification, even Galmar conceded – and now most of the Jarls were in bed awaiting tomorrow’s journeys home.

Egil smiled ruefully and accepted the goblet of mead. “I didn’t even know it could be cast on someone else.”

“Laina’s an exceptional mage. Even Sybille concedes that in the School of Alteration, she’s superior.” Torygg leaned back in his comfortable seat, sipping from his goblet. “You know I’m trying to find a middle path through all this mess, right?”

“I do,” Egil confirmed quietly. “But it won’t be enough for the Talosite diehards.”

“Is anything enough for them?” Torygg asked bitterly.

Egil remained silent. There was no way he could answer that.

After a moment, Torygg swallowed his mead and poured himself a new goblet. “I don’t want to fight you or your brother.”

“Neither do we you,” Egil admitted. “But to abandon our parents… We would no longer be Nords.”

“Ulfric, I’ll concede, has some truly Nord qualities. But Sigdrifa? No.” Torygg drank some more mead. “She’s the driving force behind the plans, isn’t she?”

Yet again Egil remained silent.

“Do you know Bjarni went and got a lot of alchemical ingredients as a gift for our sister?” he asked, changing the subject. “Everything that could possibly be gathered in the Old Holds, he got for her.”

Torygg chuckled. “Laina spends a good half of the day concocting, tasting, testing, enchanting… She’s restocked the entire stillroom and every medicine in it.”

“She does good work. There was a sick lad in Riverwood…” Egil drank some more of his mead. “We don’t need the Empire, Torygg. Why are you loyal?”

“We do,” his friend quietly. “And even if I said yes and joined the Stormcloaks, do you really think your parents would leave me alive? No. Ulfric wants to be High King and I am in his way.”

There was nothing Egil could say to that.

…

“I wouldn’t recommend eating that,” Bjarni advised as Laina lifted a scraping of giant toe nail to her mouth. “It’s the ground nail from a giant’s toe.”

She still tried it, tongue flickering out like a snake’s, and grimaced. Then she paused for a moment before turning to her journal. “Strengthens the body yet wearies one subtly,” she murmured aloud as she wrote. “Best suited to strength or fortification potions.”

“I told you shouldn’t eat it,” he remarked as she drank some water.

“An alchemist relies on their senses as much as their alchemy table,” she replied, picking up a piece of dried creep cluster. “The surest way to determine an ingredient’s effects is to taste it.”

“Don’t you risk poisoning yourself?”

Laina’s smile was a little wintry. “I’ve built up a resistance to most poisons. To affect me, it needs to be very powerful and/or very rare.”

She returned to tasting samples of every ingredient he’d brought and Bjarni glanced around the stillroom. It was a well-ventilated stone room lit by two magelights, bunches of herbs and other things dangling from the eaves, bottles of every description lining the walls. There was a bitter herbal scent in the air and every surface in the place was scoured clean.

“You should come to Windhelm and meet Nurelion,” he finally suggested after several minutes of silence.

“Nurelion Direnni? I correspond with him quite regularly,” was her absent response.

“That was Mother’s suggestion he write to you,” Bjarni said quietly. “She did want you on our side, you know.”

“Because I was her daughter or because I’m a damned good mage?”

There was no way Bjarni could reply to that because they both knew the answer.

Laina reached the end of the samples far quickly than Bjarni expected, rinsing her mouth out with water and spitting it into a small glass jar. “Thank you for this,” she said. “It’s allowed me to become more familiar with Skyrim’s pharmacopeia quicker than I might have otherwise.”

“You’re family,” Bjarni said simply. “Nords help their families. It’s what we do.”

The eloquent arch of her eyebrows conveyed her scepticism. Having the Stormsword for a mother too, he could well understand the feeling.

“Aren’t you scared of the Thalmor?” he asked.

“I’m not a Talos worshipper. In fact, when it became known I was the last of the Aurelii, I was forced to desecrate an Amulet of Talos while swearing to uphold the White-Gold Concordat. Even then, because of the interdict, I was permitted no authority or power in the Synod.” Laina washed her hands with something astringent. “Torygg pulled a lot of strings to get me out of Bruma. I owe him my loyalty, Bjarni.”

“Of course you do,” Bjarni said softly. “You wouldn’t be a Nord otherwise.”

“This is a strange sort of unrest. Ulfric and Sigdrifa are planning rebellion, openly and blatantly, yet neither have been put on trial. In Cyrodiil, your father’s outburst yesterday would have sent him to the block.”

“Half the Jarls support him. In Skyrim, our most ancient laws allow subordinates to remove a ruler if they are unjust.” Bjarni spread his hands eloquently. “The White-Gold Concordat is an act of tyranny and the Thalmor have no right to dictate who we worship. That’s why I stand where I stand.”

Laina grimaced. “If my grandfather Arius hadn’t rebelled, Mede might have been able to fight for better terms. But he did and the Emperor panicked and here we are now.”

“Your father drew the Sword of the Septims in front of my parents and Galmar,” Bjarni told her softly. “You should be-“

The sorceress blanched white as milk. “Say nothing. No more. Not a word. I won’t hear it.”

It was then Bjarni realised that his sister served the Empire out of fear, not loyalty.

…

Laina was glad to see the boat bearing the Stormcloaks leave.

She wasn’t surprised to discover her father had put the rumours to the test. Rustem had always thought of himself first and foremost – and if Sigdrifa was made to look the fool too, he’d consider that a bonus.

Her parents, she reflected grimly as she turned towards the steps down to the docks, were emotional toddlers in adult bodies.

Too unsettled to return to the Blue Palace, she walked up the path to the Kilkreath Ruins, picking thistles and mountain flowers on the way. There was a Dragonish – Dovahzul – inscription here that Egil translated once. She wanted to see whether the carvings glowed as the one at Volskygge had.

She wasn’t disappointed. “Dun,” she breathed as the Word imprinted itself on her consciousness. Neither Torygg or Egil had mentioned this effect. That was strange.

_Dun. Kest._ Laina knew one meant ‘grace’ and the other ‘tempest’. She should start working on a Dragonish to Tamrielic dictionary from the notes Egil had left. To prove that dragons existed and that they’d ruled Skyrim once… That would be the crowning achievement of Nord scholarship.

She rested her forehead against the cold stone wall, tears seeping through closed lids. Bjarni was curious and loving, Egil intelligent and studious, despite the harsh influence of her mother.

_Why wasn’t I Nord enough for you?_ she asked the shade of her mother. _I didn’t ask for my father!_

But there was no answer when she asked that question as a child and none now. There never would be because she and Sigdrifa had effectively disowned each other.

Laina wiped her eyes and turned towards the road to Solitude. She would help Torygg reclaim the ancient history of their people. A mage and a scholar could be a Nord. She knew it.

But it didn’t make things hurt less.


	8. High Gate Ruins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of religious conflict. Yes, Laina is canonically the Dragonborn, and while it isn’t usually explored in my stories, all of the Aurelii descended from Aurelia Northstar have an affinity for Conjuration magic because she’s a Daedric Prince.

“Third time the charm, huh?”

Laina smiled crookedly at Jordis as they climbed the stairs towards the High Gate ruins. “Vokun was definitely a Dragon Priest, one who may have been kin to Ysgramor himself. There will be inscriptions and other archaeological evidence here that allow us to start reconstructing the old Atmoran religion.”

“I hope we don’t start worshipping Alduin again,” the flaxen-haired huscarl observed. “It’s said he devours the souls of heroes in Sovngarde.”

“That’s what the Blades master of dragonlore told me too,” Laina confirmed with a shudder. “Another reason _not_ to seek out Sovngarde.”

“If I had the Stormsword waiting for me there, I’d reconsider my stance too,” Jordis agreed wryly. Then her face grew concerned as leather scraped on stone. “Hold. Someone’s here.”

“It’s only me. My name is Anska,” greeted the white-haired woman who stepped from behind a pillar, wearing rough fur armour and speaking with an accent Laina was beginning to recognise as from the Old Holds. “I think we might be able to help each other if you’re researching Dragon Priests and the bloodline of Ysgramor.”

“Laina South-Wind, court researcher of Haafingar. The blonde’s my huscarl Jordis.” Laina extended her hand and the other woman clasped it briefly. “The more, the merrier. The last time I investigated a Dragon Priest’s tomb, I spent most of the time running around and throwing fire spells at the bastard.”

“They are formidable enemies,” Anska agreed with a rueful smile. “It’s rare to meet a westerner who follows the old faith. Even in the east, we are few and scattered.”

“My beliefs are… complicated, but I primarily worship Kynareth. I’m from Bruma originally but most of my religious teaching outside of the Imperial tradition was from the Reach.” Laina rolled back her sleeves to show her clan tattoos. “If you’re old faith, I’d like to interview you. High King Torygg is trying to restore some of the pre-Septim ways.”

“I’d heard the rumours,” Anska admitted. “I think we can help each other.”

It turned out that Anska was from Eastmarch in the Old Holds and had come to the ancestral lands of her clan to seek out rumours of possible descent from Ysgramor himself. “More laterally, I admit,” she said as they shared a hot meal on the front porch of High Gate. “A sister or cousin, most likely. But if it’s true, my claim to the Throne of Ysgramor would be better than Ulfric’s, for his bloodline descends from the clan of Ylgar’s wife Martja.”

“I bet you’re popular with the Stormcloaks,” Jordis observed, wrapping flatbread around grilled meat and taking a bite.

“The Talosites have driven us into the hills and the islands off the coast,” Anska reported, mouth turning downwards. “Until Jarl Hoag, we lived peaceably enough with them in the shared understanding we were all true Nords of the old blood.”

“Let me guess, it’s the Stormsword who’s forcing conversions.” Laina didn’t make it a question.

“Yes. There’s only one priest left of the old faith – Torgeir’s too good a healer-mage for the Stormcloaks to antagonise – and one lad who can call himself a Clever-Crafter, and he’s begging his da to let him go to the College to learn the elven magics.” Anska took a hefty swallow of mead from her flask. “You carry a stalhrim sword. Are you a Clever-Crafter too?”

“Trained in the Imperial Synodic tradition, which is mostly elven-based, but I branched out after my granma began to teach me the old Reach magics,” Laina admitted. “I got the sword from a king-draugr in a tomb in County Bruma when I was fifteen.”

“Ha! It’s good to meet another Nord who practices magic. I was never more than averagely talented at it,” Anska said, studying her scarred knuckles. “It will hearten us of the old ways to know High King Torygg is sympathetic.”

“If you come back with us to Solitude, I might be able to get you an audience with him,” Laina promised. “If not, I can put you up at the inn so I can pick your brains about the traditions among your folk. It’ll help my research a lot.”

“Gladly.” Anska rose to her feet. “We best get this over and done with.”

Anska was, if Laina was any judge, about Apprentice-level in her skill and power as a mage but she held her own as they went through the tomb of Vokun. Aside from a couple unique puzzles, including one that unleashed draugr almost every step of the way, the ruin wasn’t anything special until they awoke Vokun. Now _that_ bastard of a lich was something else, summoning powerful Atronachs and deadly fire spells.

“Fuck!” Anska cursed as they all hid behind different columns. “Can you summon Atronachs?”

“No! Synodic mages aren’t allowed to Conjure things,” Laina said, flattening herself to a column as a fireball went past, followed by Vokun’s cruel chuckle. “I know exactly one spell in that School and if the Synod knew I knew it, I’d be cast out!”

“Soul Trap?” Jordis asked in horror.

“Kynareth, no! Conjure Familiar.”

“Is the Synod here?” Anska asked.

“No.”

“Then fuck ‘em, Laina. Cast the damn spell. It’ll buy us enough time to flank the bastard!”

Laina rounded the pillar and cast the spell. From a sphere of purple-black energy came a great hawk of pale lilac light that screeched and stooped on the Dragon Priest, going for its non-existent eyes. She never understood why that shape came and not the more familiar wolf. Catriona had just shrugged and said it was probably because she worshipped Kyne.

While Vokun was distracted, Jordis flanked the lich and attacked from behind, barely flinching as a swirl of freezing wind surrounded him. When it turned around to confront her, Laina and Anska pummelled it with Ice Storm and Sparks respectively. When it spun around to throw more fireballs at them, Jordis stabbed it in the back repeatedly. Between the three of them, they wore it down, and eventually the undead creature crumbled into dust with an ear-splitting shriek, leaving only the steel mask it wore.

The scroll Anska was looking for was in its sarcophagus and she swore under her breath as she unfurled it. “Of course, it’s coded,” she said disgustedly.

“That’s not the end of the world,” Laina assured her. “Between me, my magic and the Bards’ College’s library, I’m sure we could figure something out.”

The hedge-mage smiled thinly as she tucked it into her boot. “You and your huscarl may take what you wish.”

Laina was too busy examining the Word Wall. “Qo,” she breathed, examining the glowing claw-script. “Lightning.”

“Maybe you’re picking up Dragonish by exposure,” Jordis suggested with a grin. “You investigated all those tombs in Bruma and now you’ve been to Volskygge, the Kilkreath ruins and now here.”

“I’m fairly sure it doesn’t work that way,” Laina said as she turned away. “There were very few Dragonish inscriptions in Bruma and none of them glowed.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re a great mage,” Anska said with a shrug.

“Hardly,” Laina said with a flush. “I’m trained to Adept in all the Schools, aye, but that’s just understanding theory. I haven’t exactly invented any new spells.”

“I know one that might be new to your Synod,” Anska offered as Laina picked up the Vokun mask and tucked it into her satchel. “It summons a wolf spirit that explodes when it dies.”

“That one would be counted as Conjuration,” Laina told her. “Big no-no for the Synod.”

“If your hawk could have exploded, we might have killed Vokun sooner,” Anska countered.

“Can’t argue with that,” Jordis added.

So Laina learned the spell and yes, for her, it Conjured a flaming hawk that exploded when it struck the wall.

“If the Synod knew, they’d have a fit,” she observed as they left the tomb. “If the Elder Council knew, they’d send the Penitus Oculatus to arrest me.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Anska said succinctly.

If only it were that simple.


	9. The Mind of Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, mental illness and religious conflict.

“Two of the eight known Dragon Priest masks have been found by you,” Viarmo observed as Laina laid the Volsung and Vokun masks on the desk before him. “That’s two more than anyone else. I have a gut feeling you’re going to wind up in the Poetic Edda.”

“That’d be all I need,” she said wryly. “So Ahzidal and Vahlok are two more, right?”

“Not… exactly. Ahzidal, the Flaming One, was an acolyte of the renegade Dragon Priest Miraak. He and the other two who served him lived in what is now Solstheim.”

“Miraak was the First Dragonborn,” Laina told him. “His conflict with Vahlok the Jailor split Solstheim from mainland Skyrim, according to the lore I learned from Esbern Silver-Blood as a child.”

“Hmm… I think it’s safe to say you’re probably Tamriel’s greatest expert on the Dragon Cult,” Viarmo mused. “You should write Farengar Secret-Fire in Whiterun. He’s obsessed with dragons and is considered to be the most knowledgeable scholar of them in Skyrim outside of the Greybeards and Ulfric’s lineage.”

“I kind of fell into it,” Laina admitted with a wry smile. “When Dario Mago, an Evoker of some renown, laughed in my face when I said I believed in dragons as an Apprentice, it… lit a fire under me, I suppose.”

“Synod members are hardly known for their humility – or breadth of knowledge, as much as they like to think otherwise,” Viarmo said dryly. “You being the exception, of course.”

“Oh, when it comes to alchemy or enchanting, I’m an arrogant bitch,” Laina confessed.

Viarmo laughed, passing the masks back over to her. “You should hang on to these. The Edda says that each one contains sacred power that defies time and space.”

“I could sense the enchantments on them, but scrying fails when I lay the spell on the masks.” Laina studied the conundrum and steel masks soberly. “I can’t unenchant them. I’m worried that if I put one on, something could go wrong.”

The Dean of Bards’ College spread his hands helplessly. “I can offer no more advice, Laina. In this, you’re on your own.”

It was now the end of autumn and even protected by the high walls, Solitude was still cold from the bitter winds off the Sea of Ghosts. Laina tucked her hands into the sleeves of her Synod robes as she hurried back to the Blue Palace, wondering if she had enough saved from her stipend to buy a set of thicker robes from Radiant Raiment. Bruma, though tucked into the foothills of the Jeralls, was warmer than this.

Her room was one of the smallest in the wing reserved for courtiers, barely having room for a bed, wardrobe, desk and chair. Laina hung her satchel on the chair, laying a small Lightning Rune on it that would shock the hand not hers to touch it, and massaged the back of her neck. Jordis was eating with the other guards and dinner for the court wouldn’t be served for an hour or so. Perhaps a hot bath was in order-

Someone knocked on the door of her room; when Laina opened it, Falk Firebeard stood there with a concerned expression.

“What’s wrong?” Laina asked, stepping back to allow him entrance.

“There’s… something strange going on in the Pelagius Wing,” the auburn-haired Steward said slowly, casting a glance over his shoulder. “I mean, it’s always been a strange place and half the court believes it’s been haunted by Pelagius since his death, but… today, as he was walking down to the Temple of All Gods with Queen Elisif, the High King was accosted by a mad beggar named Dervinin. Now, he’s known for having a light tenor and dark eyes, but today his eyes were a pale green and his voice a contralto.”

“Shit,” Laina said wearily. “Among the family stories I remember hearing, there’s a persistent one that Aurelia Northstar mantled Sheogorath, or at least became an aspect of the Daedric Prince of Madness.”

“Given that you were asked for by name – and Torygg given this –“ Falk held out a piece of pelvic bone. “That family story may be right. You need to enter the Pelagius Wing, Laina. Sheo- She was quite adamant about it.”

Laina accepted the hipbone and the key Falk thrust into her hands. “I’ve had a long day. My ancestress has waited two hundred years to speak to me. She can wait one night more.”

The next day, dressed in her most powerful mage robes and enchanted jewellery, with Vokun (which gleamed with potential magical enchantment) in hand, Laina entered the Pelagius Wing. Disused and dusty, it smelt of mould and mildew.

She’d barely gotten five steps before the wing faded into… another place.

At a table nearby, set with the kind of feast she recalled from the Imperial court, the gentleman in the motley frock coat and a blond Cyrod with merish features sat talking politely. After a few words, the Cyrod vanished, and the gentleman morphed into the grotesquely muscular Nord woman with skin like bronze aged green and a fearsome under-bite that Laina had seen from the portraits in the Imperial Art Gallery.

“Pelagius and the others expect the old guy in the fancy coat,” Aurelia Northstar remarked, her eyes glittering a febrile pale green. She wore the white armour of the Arena Grand Champion she’d been before Oblivion broke loose and had the scarred, swollen knuckles and red-veined nose of the drunken bare-knuckle brawler of legend. “I figured it was high time to talk.”

“You’re very… lucid,” Laina said slowly.

“My madness is that of the battle-fury,” the Madgoddess admitted calmly. “The gentleman in the motley is the patron of mania and hallucination, Jyggalag manages those partial to extreme order and routine… Different minds respond to different behaviours and Sheogorath has a face for each of them. Very few people are mad all the time, and most of those who are still maintain a grasp on the world. So lucidity is more common than you think.”

She rose from the table and walked over to Laina. “Most of the Aurelii are cracked, so to speak. Your father shies away from authority and commitment because it reminds him of Arius. Irkand is ice-cold and utterly merciless in combat, and he has trouble empathising with those who aren’t in his close circle. Arius suffered paranoia and crippling fear of dying by treachery after a Thalmor assassin murdered his mother in front of him. Julius Martin suffered mild delusions of grandeur and megalomania because he was convinced he was the Last Dragonborn; it took Paarthurnax smacking him down three or four times to teach him otherwise.”

“And you were a drunk with breath-taking anger management issues,” Laina finished.

Aurelia roared with laughter. “That’s about the politest description of my personality I’ve ever heard! But you forgot the co-dependency with Martin and his own trauma from Kvatch.”

“I doubt you came here to fill me in on the family history of madness,” Laina said, folding her arms.

“I didn’t. I needed to see you in person because… well… you’re saner than the rest of us and I can’t get into your mind. I’m blaming Kynareth and Akatosh for that, by the way. Those two have _big_ plans for you.”

“I don’t want to know,” Laina said grimly.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, hon.” Aurelia sighed and produced the staff with the screaming face of Wabbajack from thin air. “You’ll need this. The other aspects expect you to earn it, so you might as well do it by dealing with Pelagius. We’re meeting in his mind, you know.”

Taking a stroll through the mind of a mad tyrant had never, ever been on Laina’s to-do list but she knew there was no other choice. Taking a breath, she stepped through the nearest portal.

On the other side was Pelagius and two bodyguards fighting a pair of Storm Atronachs. “Poor bastard suffered paranoia all his days,” Aurelia remarked from the sky. “Your monster must win.”

Hitting the Atronachs with Wabbajack did nothing so in desperation, Laina pointed the unholy staff in the direction of Pelagius. But the bolt of energy struck a bodyguard instead, turning him into a wolf that attacked Pelagius. When Laina repeated it, the result was the same, and Pelagius ‘died’.

“Good job, kiddo!” Aurelia exulted. “Now for the night terrors.”

Every time she struck Pelagius with Wabbajack, a new nightmare appeared, and every time the nightmare was struck by the staff it became something else. Wolf to goat, bandit to a tiny version of Pelagius, hag to beautiful maiden, flame Atronach to bonfire, Dragon Priest to chest. When Pelagius yawned and woke up, Laina found herself in the main grove once more.

“Now for the anger management issues,” Aurelia said from everywhere and nowhere.

Tiny manifestations of doubt and anger and confidence fought in a tangled brawl. Laina banished the first two and increased the last. The oppressive feeling of the air around her changed and once more, she was in the grove where Pelagius and the gentleman were bidding each other farewell.

Then the illusion shattered and she found herself in the Chamber of the Ruby Throne, facing a man who was vaguely familiar. Not particularly handsome, not with an under-bite and a nose like _that_, but black of hair and blue of eye, clad in the wrapped Akaviri robes preferred by Blades mages. There was an aura of controlled power about him and a glint in his gaze that boded ill for the one who crossed him.

“Arius.” Laina grounded Wabbajack in the plush red carpet of the chamber.

“Emperor,” he corrected with a frown.

“Only in your own mind.” Laina throttled down the anger that burned in her gut. “Your madness cost many dear. The Blades are mostly dead. Cloud Ruler Temple is in ruins. Your sons and granddaughter are under interdict. Talos is no longer worshipped because Titus Mede signed the White-Gold Concordat out of fear. All because you were mad and bad to know.”

“I am the Emperor!” Arius roared, green light sparking in his hand. Illusion magic; he’d always been a master of such. “Bow to me!”

Laina cast Lesser Ward and the spell shattered on it. “You’re a mad ghost. That I was cursed with two mad grandfathers makes me wonder how I pissed off the Divines to deserve it. I hope, when Dengeir dies, you and he share a room in the Shivering Isles so you can both enjoy each other’s company for eternity.”

“Dengeir betrayed me!”

“And you betrayed the Blades!” Laina raised Wabbajack. “You betrayed your family! You betrayed the Empire! You betrayed the gods!”

Arius flinched back, stumbling over the Ruby Throne as Laina began to advance on him. “I am the Emperor!”

Laina whirled Wabbajack around, an impressive trail of fire in its wake, and grounded it once more in the earth. Under the delusion or illusion, she saw the ghost of the grandfather she remembered cowering in fear, and all the anger she’d held ran out of her like water from a broken cup.

“You’re a sad old ghost,” she said, turning on her feel in pity and disgust. “And I’m sick of carrying the sin and stupidity of my kindred. Go dwell in your delusions, Arius Aurelius, and I will be free of you and them.”

The nightmare that haunted her grimmest dreams was nothing but a paper puppet.

By the fifth step she was back in Pelagius’ Wing, Wabbajack in her hand, and Aurelia was leaning against the wall before her.

“It’s all I can give him,” she said quietly. “I failed him. Julius Martin abandoned him. All he had was his madness in the end.”

“You forgot this,” Laina said, holding out Wabbajack.

Aurelia shook her head. “No. It’s the only way I can help you, Laina. You’re going to need it in the future.”

“If the Elder Council finds out I have Wabbajack-“

“Mede and the Elder Council are going to have bigger problems in the next few months,” Aurelia interrupted with relish. “Some chickens are coming home to roost and by the gods, I’m going to enjoy it.”

She smiled and snapped her fingers. “Have fun.”

Then she was gone.


	10. Fame by Association

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

“Dead Men’s Respite. What a cheerful name.”

Jordis swallowed a laugh at Laina’s wry comment. “Olaf One-Eye was a cheerful sort.”

“Odd, I hear he was a bit of a tyrant.” The mage cocked her head slightly. “Was he Dragonborn?”

“Possibly. Definitely a Tongue, according to the Poetic Edda. He captured the dragon Numinex and displayed its skull in the Great Hall of Dragonsreach. They say the dragon trap still hangs from the Great Porch.”

“So if we go in here, we’ve got the possibility of another Dragonish inscription and a Shouting draugr?” Laina squared her shoulders and donned the Vokun mask. “Well, it isn’t a Dragon Priest. Let’s do this.”

Jordis considered herself used to raiding tombs now. Laina’s variety of Restoration and Destruction spells generally wiped out most common draugr before the huscarl even had to worry about drawing her sword and weakened the rest enough that simple steel could hack them to pieces. Her Telekinesis could trigger or hold back traps; her potions could heal all but the worst wounds; and her stalhrim blade was so powerfully enchanted that it froze even the greatest enemy momentarily. If she branched out more into Conjuration, she probably wouldn’t even need a swordsperson along to clear out a ruin.

But this tomb was something else. The ghost of Svaknir, a skald who had spread stories about Olaf and been executed for it, guided them through the corridors as he called out for the tyrant-king to face him. There were draugr, some of them quite powerful and capable of Shouting or casting spells, and the dry skeleton of Svaknir himself clutching his last writings. Then a puzzle door that Laina quickly figured out. Then, of course, Olaf One-Eye’s draugr sitting in a throne.

The king-draugr was bearing an ebony sword that Jordis wanted immediately. Sadly, given the king had been a Tongue in life, it was going to be quite painful to retrieve it.

Laina cupped her hands together, a miniature ball of white-gold fire collecting between her fingers, and then released it with a silent throwing motion. Somehow, she could call her magic silently, a feat Jordis never knew was possible. But the spell flew straight and true, engulfing the king-draugr in scorching light and an explosion. It began to stir with a menacing growl.

To Jordis’ shock, the ghost of Svaknir appeared and began to strike at the draugr with a ghostly blade. She summoned the battle-cry and attacked the other draugr as it looked weaker.

It was a hard fight, even with the summoning of Laina’s flaming hawk, but they eventually won. Jordis swallowed a healing potion with a grimace, feeling wounds close and bruises heal, and claimed that ebony sword of Olaf’s as Laina examined the Word Wall.

“Yep, it glows. ‘Wund’… Whirlwind,” she reported. “Are you sure you can’t see it?”

“Positive.” Jordis found some other grave goods worth taking. Working with Laina was proving to be a lucrative business as the mage always split half the spoils with her.

“This is strange. None of the Dragonish inscriptions in County Bruma glowed…” Laina turned away from the Word Wall. “Well, Viarmo will be pleased. He can chant the lost verse at the Burning of King Olaf.”

They left the tomb to discover night had fallen. Laina cast Candlelight and Conjured her hawk spirit so they could walk back to Dragon Bridge, at least. “Shame you can’t call up a comfortable inn room a little closer to us,” Jordis laughed wearily.

“If I had that kind of power, I’d just obliterate every draugr in Skyrim,” Laina said ruefully.

“Pfft. Send them to pay your mother a visit.”

“I’m pretty sure that comes under necromancy.”

“Good point.”

It was a beautiful early winter’s night and Kyne’s Veil shimmered with rainbow fire across the horizon. Jordis loved living in Haafingar.

They reached Dragon Bridge about three hours after sunset and Faida, the innkeeper of the Four Shields, was only too happy to rent rooms to the court researcher of Haafingar and her huscarl. Laina paid for the rooms, bowls of the house stew and flagons of the house brew, momentarily wincing at the price Faida charged. The mage was very frugal from her time in Bruma. She hadn’t even bought new robes and her Synodic ones were staring to look a bit shabby despite the servants’ best efforts.

“You should have a nice nest egg with Falk by now,” Jordis murmured as they took a seat. “It’s getting too cold for those Cyrod robes of yours.”

“Meaning I should buy some new ones,” Laina observed dryly.

“I… well… You’re an officer of the court…” Jordis blushed.

“It isn’t lack of affordability that’s stopped me from buying a new set, it’s the lack of grand soul gems,” Laina said after a mouthful of mead. “I buy plain robes and enchant them personally. A couple of empty grand soul gems have come through Solitude but nothing that’s got an appropriate soul.”

“Ah.” Jordis rubbed the back of her neck. “Can’t you just buy an already-enchanted set?”

“No. When I say I’m a master enchanter, I mean it. I can lay two enchantments on one item.” Laina touched the hilt of her stalhrim sword. “This, for instance, has enchantments of frost and paralysis on it.”

“Oh.” Jordis blushed again. “I apologise.”

“It’s alright. You weren’t to know.” Laina nodded to Jordis’ new ebony sword. “When I get a greater or grand soul gem, I’ll put vampiric enchantments on it if you’d like. Every time you strike an enemy, their health and endurance will drain to empower you.”

“That… could be useful,” Jordis agreed. “Ghoulish, but useful.”

“Exactly.” Laina stretched out her feet, warming them. “Boots are easy to enchant. Muffle and Waterwalking only require a petty gem. My gold ring’s an heirloom from my great-great-grandmother; it has a Waterbreathing and grace enchantment on it. That’s why I can keep my balance and land on my feet. For my robes, I tend to put a combined enchantment that reduces the cost of magicka and makes both Restoration and Destruction spells more efficient. My silver ring from Whiterun has alchemical and weapon enhancements on it. My Evoker amulet gives a boost to my magicka regeneration and my enchanting skill. My hood, ugly as it is, fortifies my magicka and makes Alteration spells more efficient in cost and effect.”

Jordis whistled through her teeth. “So you’re a walking enchanted arsenal?”

“Something like that,” Laina admitted complacently. “A lot of Apprentices and Journeymages go for the flashy magics, but give me an alchemy table, an enchanting table, several soul gems, ingredients and enough time to prepare, and I will be ready for almost anything.”

“You mean anything!” Jordis laughed.

“I’d probably be toast against a dragon or greater Dremora.” Laina shrugged. “Anything less… I could at least stay alive to retreat.”

“And you doubt you’re one of the great mages?”

“No. I’m just one who’s well-prepared.” Laina begun to dig into her meal. “Let’s eat. I’m tired.”

Jordis shook her head and obeyed. They’d sing songs about Laina one day. She was certain of it. And in those songs would her huscarl Jordis. Fame by association was still fame.


	11. Argis the Bulwark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, genocide and war crimes. ‘The Caged Hawk’ will be shorter than I planned, because Bjarni and Egil’s arcs generally start in 4E199-200, and ‘The Summer King’ and Rustem’s arc will lead up to 4E201.

“Well, we’ve lost some of the verse, but we should be able to reconstruct it from the Poetic Edda,” Viarmo said as he studied the ancient volume. “This is more than we had. Thank you, Laina.”

“You’ve been helpful to me. It was the least I could do,” she said, folding her arms.

“Now, I’ll accept your assessment of your singing voice as fact,” the Altmer said with a crooked smile. “But you _do_ have a very pleasant speaking voice and there are specific styles of chanting that don’t rely on singing. Are you _sure_ you don’t want to join the College?”

Laina spread her hands helplessly. “If I had the time, I’d happily consider it. But my job as court researcher is a fulltime post, Viarmo.”

“Well, the College is always open to you.” The Dean smiled again. “The Burning of King Olaf is next week. I trust you will be attending?”

Laina matched his smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

She dismissed Jordis, telling the huscarl she intended to see if any grand soul gems had come into Bits and Pieces, and headed up towards Solitude’s mercantile district. Maybe she should just order some plain robes from the sisters and have them on hand for when a filled grand soul gem came in. There were times when the Synod’s strictures were a pain in the arse for the master enchanter. Using soul gems was allowed but using Soul Trap was bad.

Alas, there were no suitable soul gems at the general store, Sayma apologising profusely. So Laina took herself to Angeline’s Aromatics. Old Angeline was happy to talk shop and her niece Vivienne Onis was proving to be a competent apprentice.

“Tell me, dear, have you found the mandrake root yet?” Angeline was asking Vivienne as Laina entered.

“No. Which was it again?” Vivienne asked as she rummaged in the shelves.

“The one that looks like an ugly little man.”

“Then I think it tried to buy me a drink last night.”

Laina chuckled, drawing the attention of both women. “That Niben-man still drooling over you, Vivienne?”

“He’s absolutely shameless,” the apprentice alchemist said with a sigh. “I’d love to put a boot to his arse at the top of the road and watch him roll down to Dragon Bridge.”

“Have a chat to Aldis about it,” Laina suggested.

“He’s too busy training the guard.” Vivienne sighed again. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Just seeing if any new and exciting herbs are in stock,” Laina admitted.

“I’m afraid not, my dear. Trade’s always slow in the winter,” Angeline told her. “Do you have any potions to trade?”

“No. Came in from Dead Men’s Respite yesterday and spent the morning at the Bards’ College. I’ll get them to you before the Burning of King Olaf next week, I promise.”

“So you _did_ find Svaknir’s lost verse?” Vivienne asked, eyebrow rising.

“So Viarmo told me. Olaf’s ebony sword now belongs to Jordis.” Laina grinned. “Do you think Balgruuf will be offended?”

“Jarl Balgruuf’s convinced he’s the pinnacle of his bloodline,” Vivienne said dryly. “So I don’t think he’ll care.”

“Thank the gods for small favours.”

“Amen to that.”

They made a little more chitchat before Laina left and crossed the street to Radiant Raiment. Endarie was still snide and Taarie superior, but they were fairly civil to her as most of High King Torygg’s court had made substantial orders at their shop.

“One of the less obnoxious people in Solitude has arrived,” Taarie called to her sister. “From the looks of it, she needs a new robe. Or ten.”

“Thanks,” Laina said dryly. “I’ve been holding out for a grand soul gem because I prefer to enchant my own clothing.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Taarie said, eyebrows arching. “We know a fairly reputable Khajiit caravan trader who could provide a few.”

“Filled?” Laina asked.

“Of course. An empty one would defeat the purpose for a Synodic mage.” Taarie smiled thinly. “Ri’saad will be here in time for the Burning of King Olaf. It’s one of Solitude’s bigger festivals and it’s usually the only time Khajiit are permitted inside the walls.”

“Stupid law, that,” Endarie said as she entered the main shop. “Oh Auriel have mercy, Laina! Your robe’s practically a rag.”

“It’s a little shabby and worn, but still usable,” Laina said defensively.

“She’s been wanting a filled grand soul gem so she can enchant a new set, dear sister,” Taarie informed Endarie.

“I can appreciate that, but couldn’t she have some decent non-mage clothing to wear?” Endarie peered at Laina. “You didn’t lose that outfit we gave for getting orders from the court, did you?”

“No. I save it for formal occasions.”

Both sisters shuddered in unison. “You need formal wear for every season at the minimum,” Endarie said firmly. “If you _must_ be a barbarian, you can get away with two.”

“What have you been doing recently?” Taarie asked critically, studying Laina. “Your hair’s a bit of a mess.”

“Hunting Dragonish words in draugr-infested tombs,” Laina admitted. “The draugr aren’t big on fashion.”

“Why on earth would you research something so…?” Endarie paused in the middle of choosing swatches of bright fabric.

“It’s Nord history. During the Merethic Era, dragons ruled in Skyrim after the Atmorani arrived, and society was structured around that rulership – the Dragon Cult. There were eight, nine high priests called, imaginatively enough, Dragon Priests. Somewhere between Miraak’s rebellion and the dawn of written history, three Nord warriors appealed to Kyne, who swayed several dragons to Her cause and granted mortals the Thu’um – the Voice – and made those three the first Tongues like Ulfric and the Greybeards.” Laina smiled grimly. “The dragons still hung around, though, until my Akaviri ancestors arrived on red ones they’d tamed like cattle. After a bunch of killing dragons, the Dragonguard gave their allegiance to Reman Cyrodiil and then Tiber Septim centuries later, and eventually became the Blades.”

“And we know what happened to the Blades,” Taarie said with a hint of sympathy.

“My grandfather got them killed,” Laina said with a sigh. “He was a sad little man who got a lot of good people killed.”

“So,” Endarie said firmly and brightly, “I was thinking a peacock-blue wool with bands of teal and aqua interlace for the outer robe-“

“Don’t be silly,” Taarie interrupted. “Laina would look magnificent in black with amber and turquoise beads.”

“Silly? I am _trying_ to impart a little elegance to the court-“

“Yes, silly. It’s winter, dear sister. You can’t dress everyone in cool colours without having a warmer hue to offset the inevitable iciness.”

“Do I get a say in this?” Laina asked.

“Maybe, once we’ve taught you some sense of fashion,” Endarie said before turning to give her sister a glare. “We can’t put a yellow against her skin, it’ll make her look slightly jaundiced-“

The door opened and as one, the Altmer sisters glared at it. _“What?”_ they asked in disdainful unison.

“I apologise if I interrupted anything important,” said the Nord warrior who’d entered the shop. “I’m looking for the Blue Palace.”

“Not dressed like _that_, I hope,” Taarie observed snidely.

The man’s one eye, a warm brown like dark amber, narrowed. The other was a milky orb bisected by a scar that ran down the left side of his otherwise ruggedly handsome face. A spiral had been tattooed on his right cheek in deep red ink and his neatly trimmed beard was the same colour as his golden-brown hair. Powerful arms were left mostly bare by his fur-trimmed steel armour, revealing complex designs that spiralled down to the backs of his hands in ruby, scarlet and maroon ink. He was a big man, standing almost as tall as Taarie, and there was a subtle lilt to his rough tenor similar to her grandmother Catriona’s.

“You’ve stumbled into the most exclusive couturier in Solitude,” Laina said wryly, pushing her sleeves back to reveal her own feather-like turquoise tattoos and crossing her wrists together against the chest. “Beannachtaí na ndéithe ar chlé agus ar dheis chugat.”

He repeated the greeting and the gesture, a broad smile breaking across his face. “I didn’t expect to meet a woman of the hills here. What’s your clan?”

“Lost Valley. My grandmother is Matriarch Catriona,” Laina told him. “You?”

“Karthwasten. My grandmother is the Hag Bothela.” He tilted his head, golden-brown locks falling past broad shoulders. “I thought the Matriarch’s sons died without issue and her only female get delivered of sons?”

“Female get?” Endarie asked.

“I’m the one that the Stormsword doesn’t like to discuss,” Laina admitted to the warrior. “From her disastrous marriage into the Aurelii.”

“You have the look to you,” conceded the warrior. “I remember the day your mother forced me, my cousin and every other Nord child of the Reach into a wagon that took us to Honorhall Orphanage. Most of us didn’t come home.”

“Just when I thought the Stormcloaks couldn’t get any worse,” Taarie observed softly. “We… apologise for being rude, sir. We were having an intense conversation about festival dress.”

_Mark this day on the calendar,_ Laina thought wryly. _I think I just heard a minor miracle._

“I got in between a woman and her shopping,” the warrior said ruefully. “I apologise.”

“The Blue Palace is at the end of the main path,” Laina said with a gesture. “Just follow the road until you find the big blue building.”

“Thank you.” He bowed slightly. “I am Argis the Bulwark.”

“Laina South-Wind.” Good gods, was she blushing?

“It suits you, for you are a warm wind on this chill coast.” Argis the Bulwark bowed slightly again. “Thank you for the help. Blessings of the gods of left and right to you and all in this house.”

“And you,” Laina managed to croak out before he left.

“Perhaps it isn’t me who needs her mouth stitched up,” Endarie said pointedly.

“My lips are still tighter than your sleeves,” Taarie retorted.

“Don’t be silly. You know most Nords can’t appreciate fine sewing because they like that hideous cross-lacing.” Endarie clapped her hands. “Now, you might have a point about peacock-blue in winter, but black will just make Laina look like she’s in mourning.”

“You’re right about the yellows against her skin,” Taarie conceded. “With such a charming guest to the High King’s court, we wouldn’t want her to look ill.”

“Elisif’s wearing red and blue, as I recall,” Endarie mused. “Blue-green is a little _obvious…_”

“Not if we use it as an undergown. Remember, dear sister, there’s so many blue-greens to choose from…” Taarie picked up a swatch of linen and held it against Laina’s skin. “What do you think?”

“More sea-green, I think. I was thinking of a high neck and elbow-length sleeves to show off her tattoos, which are _obviously_ important to the Reachfolk…”

Laina blushed darker as the sisters began to chatter once more about colours and fabrics. Why in Kynareth’s name was she acting like a lovestruck schoolgirl? So he was charming and handsome. She wasn’t daft over him.

…

Argis the Bulwark took his time walking to the Blue Palace, considering what had happened in the tailor’s shop. He’d gone in there because even in Markarth, the Altmer sisters were known for having many customers in the High King’s court, so they could easily tell him how to get to the Blue Palace. Their disdainful attitude nearly had him retorting contemptuously – but the compact, black-haired woman with the look of a Kreathling to her had defused the situation quite neatly by greeting him politely in his own tongue and showing her own clan tattoos.

And what had he done? Questioned her lineage and dropped the grief of his background into her lap. If his grandmother found out he’d been so disrespectful to the granddaughter of a royal Matriarch, even a fallen one like Catriona, she’d wear his ears out with her tongue and rightfully so. It didn’t matter that the Altmer had apologised. He was of the old blood and a huscarl of the Reach. He should have acted better.

_How did the disowned daughter of the Stormsword wind up with clan tattoos?_ It was a question he pondered as he stopped near what had to be the Bards’ College. Catriona had retreated to Glenmoril Cavern after her failure, one the other Matriarchs couldn’t exactly condemn her for because what mother could kill her own daughter? Perhaps the Hagraven had found her granddaughter, hoping to salvage something, and taught her of the old ways. But how had she gotten past Sigdrifa?

Then he remembered that so far as most folk in the Reach knew, Sigdrifa had whelped two sons and that’s it. A bad marriage and an abandoned daughter? That fit. The Aurelii had been a prominent family in Cyrodiil until it fell in the late Great War, if he recalled correctly. The Stormsword probably saw the writing on the wall and fled, leaving husband and daughter behind.

Such behaviour sickened a true son of the Reach. They’d had to drag Argis screaming from Karthwasten after his Aunty Eodwyn was killed, his own mother lost to the childbed fever after his birthing and his father becoming a Briarheart out of grief. Him and Bryn were screaming. After that, Bryn never wept again, only smiled and joked as he fleeced the lowlanders.

Argis collected himself. He had a message to deliver.

The Blue Palace was suitably impressive, even by the standards of a man used to Markarth and Understone Keep. Argis nodded to a couple servants and guards as he climbed the stairs to the audience chamber.

Torygg was a handsome young man with reddish-brown hair who sat stiffly in an ornate gilded throne, his wife Elisif a sweet-faced redhead in a slightly smaller, less fancy seat beside him. _Western Reach blood,_ he thought on seeing her delicate features and rose-tinged milky complexion. Even the Steward had the rosy-fair skin and ruddy hair of the Sunset Lands. Was this why Torygg had sent out the messages he had to the hill-clans?

_More like he knows Ulfric is a threat and needs allies against a mutual enemy,_ Argis thought with a cynicism worthy of Bryn as he bowed.

“Welcome to the Blue Palace,” Torygg said in a soft, Cyrod-accented tenor.

“Thank you, Ard Ri of Skyrim,” Argis answered. “I am Argis the Bulwark.”

Elisif’s gaze lit up and she leaned across to murmur something in Torygg’s ear. The High King’s expression lightened and he straightened, nodding regally.

“I’m guessing you’re a response to a message I sent out months ago,” he said with one raised eyebrow.

“Something like that. There’s only one person in the Reach with the authority to negotiate what you want, and he languishes in the Silver-Bloods’ prison-mine,” Argis confirmed quietly.

Torygg’s mouth turned downwards. “I can’t give the order and have him released. Igmund would fight me all the way and possibly, out of spite, give his allegiance to a certain mutual enemy.”

“He’s too scared of Ulfric and the Stormsword to do such a thing, but I can see your difficulty,” Argis told him. “What we need is for you to remind everyone that Reachfolk are full citizens of Skyrim and therefore entitled to the same protections as anyone else in the Empire. Better yet, if you can muzzle the Silver-Bloods…”

Falk stirred. “What do we get in return for this?”

“A… truce, I suppose. Any caravan of Nords bearing the wolf-totem will be spared attacks by the Forsworn loyal to the King in Rags. More than that will depend on when he can escape and whether you can bring the Empire to the party.”

“Like the one you negotiated with Balgruuf and Idgrod?” Elisif asked shrewdly.

“The Ravencrones are our kin,” Argis told her. “Once, the folk held large swathes of Hjaalmarch, Haafingar and Falkreath. That time is gone and will come no more, but we remember.”

“And Balgruuf would have been easy to persuade,” Falk said dryly.

“He was the only Jarl to treat with Madanach as an equal the first time around,” Argis confirmed.

Torygg sighed heavily. “You know I can’t allow the Reach to go free. I need that silver and so does the Empire.”

“Madanach was trying to become a vassal king when… everything happened,” Argis pointed out.

“I don’t know if you know this, but the Gracchi were manipulating him and possibly Ulfric during the events of the Markarth Incident,” Torygg said with another sigh.

“I’m guessing the King in Rags knows this,” Argis said with a shrug. “I don’t know. I’m the only Nord-blood Reacher who could be trusted to deliver the message. The other would have picked every pocket in the place and walked out with a grin.”

“I’m guessing that would be Brynjolf, Day Master of the Thieves’ Guild,” Falk said sardonically.

“You’d guess right.”

Torygg nodded. “I need to consult with my own advisers. Falk?”

“Laina should be on this. Her grandmother was once High Priestess of Hircine and she’s the closest thing we have to an expert on the Reach among our people,” the Steward said promptly. “Bryling too. _Not_ Erikur; you know he’ll look down on the Reachfolk as howling barbarians.”

“I met Laina on the way here,” Argis admitted. “I, uh, interrupted those Altmer sisters in their shop because I needed directions here.”

Elisif laughed. “And you walked out with a whole skin! You must be an extraordinary man, Argis the Bulwark.”

He flushed. “I’m not, Your Highness.”

“How long can you stay in Solitude?” Torygg asked.

“A week or so. I have errands to run for Steward Raerek and a couple other officers of the court.”

“Then I will have an answer for you after the Burning of King Olaf. Do you require accommodation?”

Argis shook his head. “I have enough money to stay at the inn.”

Torygg smiled slightly. “Then welcome to Solitude. I hope you enjoy your visit here.”


	12. No Fun For Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and genocide. I decided on Argis for canon!Laina because he’s like Farkas, but doesn’t belong to a faction, and in my head-canon he’s Brynjolf’s tank cousin, lol. Most of the political fallout from this story will be covered in ‘The Summer King’. I am using Google Translate and Irish for the common Reach greetings.

The Winking Skeever was cosier than the Silver-Blood Inn and Argis had to chuckle at how the inn got its name. It definitely catered to the upper crust of Solitude, if not the lowlands, because even the humblest guest wore clothing dyed in more than simple red, yellow or blue, everyone had full-fed faces and wine was more popular than the readily brewed ale or mead. The house stew even featured meat and more than a few chunks of vegetable. Argis thought he ate well as a member of Markarth’s guard but the menu of the Winking Skeever put his rations back home to shame.

He’d changed out of his steel armour, leaving it on the rack thoughtfully provided by the inn, and wore the worse of his two outfits. Deerskin tanned to supple softness for the breeks and tunic, a shirt of undyed cotton, and his boots cleaned of the road dust. It wasn’t anything spectacular but he wanted to save his brown wool tunic with its bands of red embroidery and the soft leather pants for this Burning of King Olaf festival.

The innkeep brought him a flagon of ale and bowl of house stew with a manner much cheerier than Kleppr and Frabbi at the Silver-Blood Inn. Argis smiled his thanks and chose a seat in a small alcove off the common room. He wanted to observe the Haafingar locals, mostly out of curiosity but also to see if he could get any idea of the political situation in Solitude. That Torygg was an embattled king was obvious.

For the most part, they seemed loyal to the Empire, if not Torygg personally. Solitude prospered from the sea-trade brought by the East Empire Trade Company and prosperous people were comfortable and complacent. The few times Ulfric came up, it was to observe that the Empire would put him back in his place once he placed a foot wrong. They’d obviously not seen the tactical brilliance that defeated Madanach twenty or so years ago.

It had been bitter to learn that the Empire had played both sides. The conclusion had been foregone as soon as Madanach took the Mournful Throne. Argis supposed the Empire backed Igmund because he was obedient and pliant, not because he was a good ruler.

The house ale was a good dark one, with the right kind of bitterness, and the house stew was thriftily made from rabbit and goat. Mammoth, beef and venison were rich men’s meat, pheasant and chicken for the middle class, rabbit and goat for the churl, horse for the soldier on campaign, wolf for the hunter, and sabre cat for those who were desperate. It was rare for Argis to taste any kind of spice other than salt, but there was something with a bit of a zingy taste in his stew.

“Snowberry.” The innkeep’s son, a darkly handsome Cyrod, had paused as Argis puzzled over the stew.

“Excuse me?” Argis asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘Snowberry’ was something of an insult in the lowlands when addressed to a warrior.

“The taste is snowberry. Da adds salt and snowberries to the house stew.” When Argis blinked at the man, he grinned. “Everyone asks after it.”

“Ah.” Argis was used to the sweetness of juniper berry, which grew in profusion in the Reach. “That’s the red one, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “You’ve never seen a snowberry bush before?”

“We’re used to juniper trees in the Reach,” Argis said dryly.

“Fair enough. You should try my juniper crostatas. My personal twist on an old Nibenese recipe.” The innkeep’s son returned to his serving.

“Thanks.”

Argis was on his second tankard of ale when Laina South-Wind arrived, accompanied by a pretty flaxen-haired girl in similar steel armour to his own. She still wore slightly worn, shabby mage robes of blue and green in an odd style, which was more elaborate than he was used to. Calcelmo and Aicantar preferred long, simple robes of a dark blue-grey while the mages from the College who came through generally wore tunics and trousers with a long coat or mantle depending on their rank (or money). Magic was… well, you were either dedicated to the learning or power and not interested in wealth or you sold your skills for exorbitant rates and dressed accordingly. From the looks of her, Laina was transitioning from the former to the latter.

“I’m glad I missed it,” the flaxen-haired huscarl was saying wryly. “Endarie and Taarie arguing…”

“They nearly flayed the poor man who entered with their tongues,” Laina agreed softly.

“The cute one from the Reach?”

“I didn’t say he was cute!” Her low, pleasant voice was embarrassed.

“No, but Erdi did.” The huscarl grinned. “Like ‘em big and a bit on the barbarian side, do you?”

“Someone coming from the Reach doesn’t make them a barbarian, Jordis,” Laina said softly. “My granma Catriona had more compassion and decency in one little finger than my mother had in her entire body.”

“Not hard,” Jordis pointed out.

They made their way to the alcove where Argis sat. He swallowed the last of his mead and rose to his feet. “I was just leaving,” he assured the two women.

“Don’t leave on our account,” Jordis said with a grin. “Erdi was right when she said you were cute.”

Argis could only assume that Erdi was one of the servants. “Thanks, but it’s been a long day.”

“So I heard,” Laina said quietly. “Coinníonn Kyne tú go dtí maidin.”

_Kyne keep you until morning._ “Thanks,” he said softly.

Her olive-bronze cheeks reddened and she ducked her head a little.

Argis took himself off before he put his foot in his mouth again. He was obviously making Laina uncomfortable. Which, given his manners, was understandable.

It was going to be an interesting week, to say the least.

…

Jordis buried her face in her hands with a groan.

“Have you _ever_ flirted with a man?” she asked of the air. “Of course not! You acted like a girl with her first crush.”

“I’ve always focused on work,” Laina said defensively.

Not that the last of the Aurelii would have been a preferred partner for any man who knew her family’s history, assuming the mostly Cyrod and Breton mages of the Synod would have fancied a woman who stood a half-head taller than most of them to begin with.

“Ye gods,” Jordis moaned. “One of the greatest mages in the world and you can’t talk to an attractive man.”

“I’m not one of the greatest mages in the world-“

“Until the Burning of King Olaf, we won’t be tomb-raiding, dungeon-delving or book-reading,” the huscarl said firmly. “You need lessons in socialising.”

“I do just fine,” Laina said as firmly. “Yes, he’s handsome, I’ll admit. But he will be gone in a week or so and my work here will remain.”

Jordis rolled her eyes. “All the more reason not to waste the week! Have a fling with the handsome Reacher!”

“No! Kynareth’s mercy, what if it got back to my granma? The Hags and the Matriarchs all know each other.” Laina deliberately bit into her bread to end the conversation.

Jordis, of course, wouldn’t give up. So Laina needed to keep her busy.

“There’s one more place I want to investigate before the festival,” Laina said. “There’s an old tomb across the harbour in Hjaalmarch. Folgunther. It looks to be of an age with the Dragon Cult, maybe a little younger, and there are rumours of old magic there.”

“Oh no. I’ve read _Lost Legends._ There’s an evil lich there,” Jordis said quickly.

“Alright, then we can check out Ustengrav. They buried the founder of the Greybeards there, I believe.”

“You’re just trying to distract me from trying to teach you a few things about having fun,” Jordis accused.

“I know. Shameless of me, isn’t it? I’ve got much more on my mind than getting laid.”

“I’m stubborn. I won’t give up.”

Laina rolled her eyes. “And I’m older than you, just as stubborn, and actually have work to do.”

“Argis is gorgeous!”

“That he is, Jordis. But he’s mixed up in politics and every time an Aurelii gets mixed up in politics, we come down with a bad case of the dead or disgraced.” Laina smiled. “If I am to be the last of the Aurelii, I’d rather go out on a note of being a respected author and mage.”

Jordis shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with fun.”

“No, there isn’t,” Laina agreed with a pang, “But it isn’t for me.”


	13. Tending the Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes and genocide. Final chapter, folks; the story will continue in 'The Summer King'.

“O Olaf, our subjugator, the one-eyed betrayer; death-dealing demon and dragon-killing King. Your legend is lies, lurid and false; your cunning capture of Numinex, a con for the ages.”

Despite his rough tenor, Viarmo’s voice carried across the silence of the hushed crowd as the first stars of night twinkled overhead. The effigy of Olaf awaited the torch but everyone was more interested in the lost verse of Svaknir that Laina had found in Dead Men’s Respite and restored by the Bards’ College. Torygg’s privy purse had put on a spectacular feast for the festival, full of the foods he enjoyed and awash with San’s spiced wine.

“No shouting match between dragon and man, no fire or fury did this battle entail. Olaf captured a fast-sleeping dragon, a mighty feat which the meek would not fail,” Viarmo intoned, golden eyes raking the crowd.

“Balgruuf’s going to love that,” Falk remarked to Thane Bryling quietly.

“Pfft, he’d just laugh and said it showed his ancestors were men of acumen,” was her response.

Torygg allowed his attention to wander slightly as he examined the officers and guests of his court. Elisif, beside him, was a vision in sea-blue and maroon trimmed with snow-white fur; her coppery hair had been twined into an intricate crown around her delicate face. Falk was distinguished in black furs and wine-red velvet, Reach-style interlace of deepest green around the collar and cuffs of his Breton doublet. Bryling wore autumn hues of russet and saffron and gold and Erikur was clad in a motley of colours as garish as Sheogorath’s frock coat. Argis the Bulwark wore fine garb, though his tunic of chestnut-brown wool, soft leather breeches and knotwork red embroidery was subdued in comparison to many folk of Solitude. Even Laina had outdone herself for the festival, her high-necked dress of pale sea-green and gold brocade fastened with deeper teal knots-and-loops that _almost_ brought to mind an Akaviri robe, short sleeves showing the feather-like turquoise tattoos on her forearms. The sisters at Radiant Raiment had somehow managed to set the fashion that would last until spring, knotwork and interlace and warm colours.

No doubt Ulfric and his dour court would be horrified at the display of prosperity and art. Music was probably banned in Windhelm unless it involved screaming inventive verses about killing elves and Imperials.

“Olaf grabbed power, by promise and threat; From Falkreath to Winterhold, they fell to their knees. But Solitude stood strong, Skyrim's truest protectors. Olaf's vengeance was instant, inspired and wicked,” Viarmo continued, his eye glinting darkly. “Because Solitude would not soon bend knee, Olaf would hurt them while his status accrued. He sacked Winterhold his only true ally, and used magic bold to blame Solitude.”

“Is that possible?” Jordis asked Laina with wide eyes.

“If he was a Tongue, there were Shouts said to sway the will even of dragons,” Laina answered. “The legends say Miraak killed dragons with three Words. Compared to that, fooling a few hundred people is small potatoes, and everyone else would believe out of sheer terror.”

Thank the Eight Ulfric didn’t know such a Shout.

“So ends the story of Olaf the liar, a thief and a scoundrel we of Solitude commit to the fire.” Viarmo’s grin was fierce. “In Solitude bards train for their service, they also gather each year and burn a King who deserves it.”

He accepted a torch from Panteia, placing his hand just below his mouth and seemingly breathing fire to light it, earning a delighted ‘ooh’ from the crowd. It was Flames in his palm and a bag of flammable but short-lasting fuel in his cheek, but Torygg was amazed all the same. Then he lit the effigy and everyone cheered.

“Now that we’ve set Olaf on fire for another year, let us break our fast with a feast!” Torygg announced. “Meat and wine are yours until dawn!”

Alright, so the meat was mostly stew and pie, but beef and venison were rare meats for even the more prosperous non-nobles of Solitude. The spiced wine was distilled from jazbay and snowberry, sweetened with honey and foreign spices, and everyone received a bottle. The Bards’ College had provided kegs of ale and mead that were beginning to go sour, but everyone loved a free drink so they didn’t mind.

Torygg snagged bottles of wine and meat pies for himself and Elisif, then made his way back to their ornate benches. “I have found us a feast, my fair lady!” he crowed in triumph.

“You stepped on Erikur’s toes to get it. You should be ashamed of yourself,” Elisif said with a delighted laugh.

“I’ll salve his pride with a shipping contract or something.” Torygg handed her a meat pie and bottle of wine. “Radiant Raiment has outdone itself this year.”

“They have indeed! Argis’ arrival set quite the trend. It’s good to wear something that reminds me of home.” Elisif popped the cork on her bottle and drank straight from the mouth. “Aargh, me hearties, I’m a pirate now!”

Torygg snorted wine through his nose.

In the crowd, Jordis was pushing Laina towards Argis, who was trying to fend off the bardic apprentice Lisette’s attempts to dance. When the mage clearly dug in her heels in an attempt not to move, Endarie and Taarie exchanged glances and removed Lisette by their greater height, leaving the way clear to the Reacher huscarl.

“Am I missing something or is there a matchmaking conspiracy going on?” Torygg asked his wife, who had a greater understanding of these things.

Elisif nodded merrily, her cheeks dimpled from her broad grin. “I heard Laina was quite tongue-tied in the presence of our Reacher guest, so I did a little research. Argis’ father Coroc was the brother of Madanach’s Steward Gillam, who came from a lineage of petty chiefs who held a rank somewhere between hetman and Thane. That makes him minor nobility, at least in Evermore; in order to keep the peace with the Sunset Folk, we recognise their ranks and they recognise ours. My mother’s father was a chief of similar rank.”

“Didn’t some Reachman named Feredach try to make that happen about sixty or so years ago?”

“Feredach, the father of Madanach, the Ri of Lost Valley. Married his niece Catriona, who was Nord-bred, to Dengeir and… well… we know how _that_ turned out.” Elisif grimaced.

“Wasn’t all bad,” Torygg pointed out. “Laina’s quite loyal and competent.”

“My love, you’re the first one to ever give her a chance,” Elisif reminded him. “Now, she’s under interdict in Cyrodiil because of her paternal kin. But that only applies to the Imperial Province, not Skyrim, and most certainly not the Reach.”

Torygg pursed his lips. “I don’t think she wants to be a ruler.”

“No. But from everything I’ve heard, Argis is popular among his fellow Nords and most of the Reachfolk. He’s obviously got ties to the Forsworn if he’s carrying messages from Madanach. Igmund has a spine of butter and the Silver-Bloods are not only supporters of Ulfric, they’re literal scum of the earth.” Elisif nibbled delicately on her pie. “The Reach can’t secede from Skyrim, but it deserves a Jarl of its people. Argis can’t be worse than Thongvor, hmm?”

Torygg drank some more wine. “Here’s to hoping Madanach agrees.”

“I don’t think he has much choice, love. If he agrees to this, we get a force used to fighting Stormcloaks and he gets vengeance on Ulfric.” Elisif smiled slightly. “Something for everyone.”

The High King watched Laina and Argis begin to dance. There was definitely a spark there which could grow to something more.

“You can please some of the people some of the time, but you can’t please all of the people all the time,” he finally said.

“The only ones to be displeased will be the Stormcloaks. I can live with that.”


End file.
